


The Adventure of the Jolly Roger

by Mystrade_Dispatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Health Issues, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, talk of serious diseases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrade_Dispatch/pseuds/Mystrade_Dispatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen!Mystrade AU: Sherlock has a run-in with older boys from Mycroft's school with destructive results, leaving Mycroft to deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft turned around and looked at his brother. He had to blink several times to get the red mist in front of his eyes to fully dissipate. “Tell me what happened.” His voice was low. “Everything.”

Mycroft Holmes hadn't been inside the house for two seconds before he heard soft whimpering sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen.

At first he paid little mind, assuming that the housekeeper had forgotten to let Redbeard out again. Mycroft groaned, anticipating the mess he’d inevitably have to clean up. _A certain person_ seemed to always be absent during such times, despite a _certain person's_ insistence that Redbeard was _his_ dog and the one who loved him best.

But as he hung up his blazer in the foyer closet and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to prepare for the job at hand, Mycroft heard a loud, teary sniffle followed by muffled sobs. At the edge of his vision, Mycroft suddenly noted a rust-colored blur and then heard the patter of tiny feet and a series of barks.

If Redbeard had been in Mummy’s study, then that _other_ noise in the kitchen could only be –

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft hurried toward the sounds, which were becoming louder and more distinct.

“ _Sherlock_!”

Rushing into the kitchen, Mycroft blinked. Sherlock Holmes, still in his school uniform, sat in the middle of the floor, sniveling quietly. His legs were drawn up to his chin, and his face, obscured by his mop of dark hair, was bent forward.

Mycroft was stricken for he briefest second by the sight of his unusually stoic baby brother in tears. He gave him a quick, but thorough once-over, slightly reassured by the knowledge that Sherlock wasn’t injured or physically unwell.

His thoughts then went to their parents – was there an accident, maybe? No, he could hear the hoover going upstairs, meaning Mrs. Turner was still there. If one or both of their parents had been languishing in some A&E somewhere, it was very unlikely that their housekeeper would be calmly doing up the rooms, leaving Sherlock to his own devices out of her sight.

Mycroft spotted the biscuits and milk on the table and frowned. Sherlock had waited, then, for Mrs. Turner to go about her duties before he’d dissolved into tears, and yet he didn’t go to his room where he’d be assured relative privacy until dinnertime.

Sherlock had _wanted_ to be found. He was in distress, and he had wanted to be discovered – but not by their housekeeper, whom he liked very much, and not by their parents.

He had wanted his big brother.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” Mycroft, his heart pounding, squatted next to him. “What’s happened?”

The boy lifted his head, wiping at his damp cheeks. The tip of his nose was flushed and the tears made his eyes seem unnaturally blue. He stared bleakly at Mycroft before taking a shuddering breath, his lower lip quivering on the exhale.

“M-Mycroft …” His mouth wobbled. “T-They … they …”

Mycroft rubbed the boy’s back. “It’ll be all right, Sherlock. Whatever it is, it will be all right. What did ‘they’ do?”

Sherlock made a great effort to get hold of himself, wiping his nose on his sleeve and taking another deep breath.

“They … they … they _broke_ it!”

“What? What did _they_ break?”

“The … the … Jolly Roger! They tore it up!” Sherlock’s face crumpled. “Now it’s no good anymore. Look!”

Fresh tears trickled down his face as he pointed toward the kitchen table.

“They threw it in the trash and told me that since I was so smart, I could figure out a way to carry my books without it.”

Mycroft straightened to his full height and spotted a chair on which sat what looked to be a mound of black rags. On an adjacent chair was a pile of books – Sherlock’s schoolbooks – neatly stacked, though the texts had odd bends the corners and the covers looked dingy. The books had been dropped on the ground, likely from a distance, and from the look of the damage to the corners, at the same time.

Mycroft drew closer and fingered the black fabric. There was a dank, fetid smell rising from the shredded cloth that was reminiscent of decaying fruit, and it was stained with unspecified muck. But even in such a deplorable state, there was no mistaking it.

It was, indeed, the Jolly Roger, and it was in tatters.

Mycroft took a deep breath, not quite able to absorb it all.

The whole thing had started as a somewhat clandestine hobby. Sherlock had discovered a certain site on the Internet that claimed to trade in "actual artifacts from recovered ships, some of them vessels of piracy." Mycroft had perused the site and found the items for sale a bit dodgy, and the prices didn't give him any confidence that anything was truly real, but it was all in good fun.

There had been a section on vexillology that had intrigued Sherlock right away, and he'd been chuffed to find that the site offered real bits of flags from scuttled pirate ships, preserved for centuries and now available to the public for suspiciously reasonable prices. He remembered how eager Sherlock had been to receive actual pieces of pirate ship flags – though Mycroft had doubted the provenance of some of the items – and he was glad to sink his allowance into his collection. Each month, a new bit would arrive at the Holmes household and Sherlock would stroke the faded black cloth lovingly, reading up on the history of the ship from which it had come – or, when no information was available – constructing his own version of events.

Sherlock had initially wanted to stitch the fabric squares together into a “superflag of pirate dominance” to hang above his bed, but their mother had vetoed that idea. She was prepared to indulge her youngest son’s pirate “fetish” to an extent, but apparently mounting a banner consisting of mismatched black material from “god knows where” was her limit.

It had been Mycroft’s idea to fashion the pieces of fabric into something that Sherlock could carry around with him every day and not be looked at askance. A book bag seemed the most logical solution. Sherlock was sold on the idea that he’d be able to carry around his own veritable pirate flag, his own personal “Jolly Roger,” and know that it was genuine – to an extent.

They’d collected the scraps and taken them to a friend of Mrs. Turner’s – a lovely woman called Martha Hudson who lived in central London who had once made her living as a milliner and seamstress to London’s fashionable set. The commission had tickled her, and she’d put her all into it, even putting a small skull and crossbones on the underside of the strap where only Sherlock could see it. And, what was more more important, Mummy could _not_.

It was more a rucksack than a backpack, but Sherlock felt it was more “authentic,” as pirates tended to put their booty into such bags, and backpacks hadn’t existed back then anyway.

Mycroft lifted the pile of ripped cloth to eye level. It had been slashed rather haphazardly in several places with some sort of small knife. Likely one of those utilitarian things similar to what older members of the Scouts carried. He saw a definite pattern of dirt stains and telling scratches on the underside of the backpack and his hands closed into tight fists. Whoever had done this had dragged it out from under Sherlock and had actually taken a bloody _knife_ to it right in front of him. And, to crown it all, had thrown it in the trash, leaving a 9-year-old boy stagger home under the weight of his school texts.

Mycroft turned around and looked at his brother. He had to blink several times to get the red mist in front of his eyes to fully dissipate.

“Tell me what happened.” His voice was low. “Everything.”

Sherlock looked up. Mycroft couldn’t be sure of his expression at that moment, but whatever it was, was enough to make Sherlock sit up a little straighter. In another moment the tears had stopped and the color was back in Sherlock’s face.

He absently reached out to stroke Redbeard’s head as the large dog curled protectively around him.

“I was coming home from school. I was going to go to John’s, but his sister was being a bint –”

“Sherlock!”

The boy sighed. “ _Fine._ She was being rude. Better?”

Mycroft sighed. It was probably the best he could expect. “Go on.”

“Well, John said I’d better come over some other time. I walked by myself part of the way and then went across the street to St. Xavier’s to see if you’d gotten out yet.”

“It’s Wednesday. I have my maths tutoring session from seventh period until an hour after the end of classes on Wednesdays and Fridays. I thought Mummy told you that.”

“I forgot. I didn’t remember until I got there, but I couldn’t ring you or text you because I wasn’t with John and I don’t have a mobile. Because Mummy and Dad think I’m _too young_ for a mobile.” Sherlock was pouting.

Mycroft was silent. He disagreed with his parents’ stance on keeping Sherlock mobile-free. In this day and age, having mobile communication was vital. Yes, Sherlock’s school – and his own, come to that – was just a few blocks away from home, but anything could happen in those few blocks. His eyes strayed to the mangled pile of cloth on the table.

“I waited for awhile and then I remembered about your tutoring and so I left,” said Sherlock. “I was walking past the cricket pitch and I saw these older boys walking toward me. They weren’t in uniforms. They had suits on –”

Mycroft held himself still as his brain flipped through a veritable database of faces.

… _Lower or Upper Eighth …_

“ – And they all had their ties wrapped around their wrists. The left one –”

… _Footballers. Left wrist means a victory in a big game during the week. They tore St. Paul’s apart yesterday …_

“I’d seen one of them before.” Sherlock’s lip curled in distaste. “His brother is in my year. He’s come to pick him up sometimes when Headmaster’s put him in detention. He’s big and stupid-looking, just like Sebastian.”

“Sebastian? Is that the brother who goes to Ogilvee with you?” Mycroft frowned when Sherlock nodded. “What’s the last name?”

“Moran.” Sherlock’s voice was sullen.

Mycroft’s brain immediately snapped on the image of a tall, blocky boy with a blond brush cut and an indolent sneer.

“The older brother is called Creighton. He’s an L-8. Is _he_ the one who cut up the Jolly Roger?”

“No, he took it first, but someone else cut it up. But Sebastian's brother is the one who told the others … ” Sherlock paused, lowering his head.

“Told the others what?”

“He told him that - _that name_.” The lower lip started to tremble again. “ _That name_ that they call me at school. The one Mummy doesn’t like me to say. Sebastian must have told him and he - he called me that, in front of all of his friends.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, slowly, feeling the blood rush to his face. He heard _that name_ echoing in his ears, again saw Sherlock walking through the door, a bewildered expression on his face when he'd first spoken of being called _that name._

It had happened, apparently, during a presentation he'd been called upon to give in front of the whole school. He'd gotten a bit carried away with the subject matter, which was the role earthworms played in the decomposition of soil, and how everyone had laughed – everyone, that is, _except_ for John Watson, a serious, quiet boy two years older, and a girl called Molly Hooper who was in Sherlock’s year and shared his love of and aptitude for science and maths.

Mycroft opened his eyes and took a breath. “Tell me exactly what Moran said.”

Sherlock looked uncertain. “Mummy doesn't like –”

“I won’t tell Mummy or Dad about any of this,” said Mycroft in a soft voice. “It will be our secret - yours and mine. All of it."

Seeing his brother's expression unchanged, Mycroft leaned close and lowered his voice. "Do you remember what I’ve said when we go down to the Common and watch people and try to discover things about their characters and their lives? That the more data and information we have, the more accurate we are? It’s the same here. I need to know as much as you can tell me so that I can figure out how we can fix the Jolly Roger.”

“ _Can_ it be fixed?” The boy’s expression was doubtful. “It’s all in pieces now!”

“It _can_ be fixed,” said Mycroft with quiet conviction. “But I have to know everything, Sherlock. Tell me.”

Sherlock considered that. Nodded.

“Well, I was trying to walk past them, but Sebastian’s brother stopped in front of me and his friends were on the other side of him.” Sherlock paused. “He said … ‘Oi! Look who it is! It’s the little _Freak_ who goes to school with my brother. The one who knows which teachers sneak a fag in the bogs between classes and all the snot-nosed sprogs who still wet their beds. Why do you have your Mum’s handbag, _Freak_?’”

Mycroft swallowed hard. He believed that he himself was possessed of an eidetic memory, but Mycroft was becoming more and more certain that Sherlock was exhibiting signs of having an _emotional_ memory. Flashbulb memory, he’d heard it called – the ability to recall in great detail an event of great moment … or one of distinct trauma.

Seeing something he loved destroyed right in front of him would certainly qualify as traumatic. Mycroft had no doubt Sherlock would be able to recall every facet of it.

“What did you do when he said those things?”

“I didn’t do anything," said Sherlock. "John said I shouldn't say things to people, things I know about them. John says I could get into trouble. Like when I told Mrs. Jameson that her perfume made Mr. Harwell’s head hurt and she shouldn’t keep spraying it on him. She made me write an extra essay abut the Magna Carta after that.”

“Spraying it _on_ him? How do you know she was doing that?”

“His shirt,” said Sherlock. “He and Mrs. Jameson were in charge of setting up the mats in gym class and when he’d come out, his shirt smelled of it all over and he’d take paracetamol before our astronomy class.”

“Er.” Mycroft coughed. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded, looking thoughtful. “Once, he got really sick. I asked him why he didn’t just change into his clean shirts if his head hurt so much.”

“ _Clean_ shirts?”

“Mr. Harwell would always change his shirt once school was over. He always had one, every day, to put on. He kept it in his briefcase,” said Sherlock. “If Mrs. Jameson’s perfume gave him such a bad headache, and he couldn’t stop her from spraying it on him, why would he wait until he was going home to put on a shirt that didn’t smell like her perfume? And why wasn't it good to tell Mrs. Jameson that her perfume was making Mr. Harwell sick and that she shouldn’t put it on him anymore?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. _Now_ he understood the nature of some of those “urgent conferences” to which their parents had been summoned at his brother’s school.

“It’s complicated,” said Mycroft in a cautious voice. “Obviously, Mr. Harwell and Mrs. Jameson are good … friends. He just probably didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“Well, they've stopped being friends.” Sherlock shrugged. “Mr. Chase helps Mrs. Jameson with the mats now. She sprays her perfume on him, too, but he doesn’t get headaches from it.”

Mycroft coughed again.

“I told John about that, and John said I shouldn’t have said _anything_ , so I don’t say anything really to anyone. Except John sometimes. He doesn't get mad. Well, he _does_ sometimes, but it's never for long,” said Sherlock. “I _could_ have said things about Sebastian’s brother. Like the things he does behind his Mum’s back that could get him into a lot of trouble … or the things he steals from his Dad’s office. I _could_ have said them, but I didn’t.”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, his eyes doubtful. Mycroft nodded in response, knowing Sherlock would understand that he approved of his behavior. He didn’t really know what the younger brother was like, but Creighton Moran was a swaggering bully with a twisted sense of humor bordering on the sadistic. It was bad enough that Moran and his oversize goons had accosted Sherlock and destroyed his property. Things might have gone much worse if Sherlock had spilled the beans on the older Moran's more unsavory activities. Mycroft was certain that there would come a time, however, where neither Creighton’s good looks nor his parents’ money would be able to save him from a long prison sentence or a particularly inelegant demise.

"Right, so tell me more about what went on today. After Moran said those things and you ignored him, what happened next?"

“I tried to go around them,” said Sherlock. “But they would move whenever I moved and block my way. They laughed at me.” His face clouded. “Sebastian’s brother said that I was a ‘bit of fluff’ for carrying a purse. I told him it _wasn’t_ a purse, and even if it was, I could carry one if I wanted. But it _wasn’t_ , it was a _rucksack_ and I said … I said he probably didn’t know what that even meant, because he was stupid just like his stupid brother!”

Mycroft winced. _That_ could not have gone over very well. He understood that Sherlock’s patience, not very high in the best times, must have worn thin, but it wasn’t very well advised to snap at a person like Moran that way. Sherlock hadn’t been physically harmed, however, so that was something.

“He got mad and went to grab the Jolly Roger. I tried to keep it from him, but he was bigger and he …” Sherlock’s eyes looked bleak. “He grabbed it and wouldn’t let go. I tried to pull it back, but then I fell, and I couldn’t keep him from taking it. He opened it and dumped all my books on the ground and he said ‘Looks like a handbag to me.’ And then …”

Mycroft saw the chin starting to quiver. Sherlock’s eyes were going glassy again.

“Is that when he started to cut …?” Mycroft gestured toward the table.

“No.” Sherlock took another deep breath. “I tried to grab it back, but he threw it to his friend, and his friend said: ‘Whatever it is, you’re such a smart lad, you’ll figure out a way to get on without it.’”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with a sort of quiet resignation. “He took something out of his pocket and opened it. I didn't know it was a knife until then. It was shiny and small and other things besides a knife in it, like nail clippers and a screwdriver. But he wanted the knife. And then he took the Jolly Roger and cut it up. Then he threw it in the bins.”

“Were the others holding you back while he did this?”

“No. But I couldn’t stop him.” Sherlock hung his head. “It happened too fast. He does it a lot.”

“What do you mean? Does _what_ a lot?”

“Cutting. With that knife. It was old and dingy, so he’s had it a long time,” said Sherlock. “He was _really_ fast, so he uses it a lot to cut up things.”

 _Hmmm why would anyone need a knife and what would require its heavy use?_ Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. _A multipurpose knife is for emergencies, so nothing that requires a great deal of finesse like woodworking … Maybe it's for an after-school job? Yes. Maybe at a shop. Not a grocer’s. He wouldn’t use his own knife … wait … he might be a stocker. Sometimes they have to cut up boxes once they’ve put the things on the shelves …  
_

He set those thoughts aside for a moment. “What else can you tell me about the person with the knife? What did he look like?”

“Tall, but not as tall as Sebastian’s brother – or you,” said Sherlock. “He had dark hair and dark eyes. …”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow when Sherlock fell silent.

“Anything else? Distinguishing marks – like a scar or a mole – that you could see? Odd teeth? Hairy neck?”

“No. I didn’t see anything like that. But …”

“But …?”

“They don’t like him. Sebastian’s brother and the other boy who was there. They don’t want to be his friend. They think he’s a clot.” Sherlock’s brow knit. “He knows they don’t like him, but he wants them to. That’s why he ... did that. He wanted to … to … do that thing Mummy says I do when I tell people things we find out when we’re doing our discoveries.”

Mycroft almost smiled. “Show off?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “He was showing off for them, so that they’d like him better, but it didn’t work. They laughed when he cut the Jolly Roger, but they still didn’t like him afterwards. I think he knew it, but he didn't care, because they laughed anyway.”

Sherlock gave his brother a quizzical look. “Why would he want to be with people who don’t like him? That seems so stupid. I know that Sebastian and Culverton and Henry and John Woodley don’t like me and I don’t like them and I don’t even want to be around them.”

“People aren’t always logical when it comes to such things,” Mycroft said with a shrug. “You’ll find that out more and more as you get older.”

But he chewed over this new bit of information. It _was_ strange. The football team was among the closest-knit of all the sport clubs at St. Xavier, even more than the rugby and cricket teams, in fact. Creighton Moran was an unsociable arse, but he and his football mates were more or less inseparable. Most of the footballers were Lower or Upper Eighths, and so many of them had known each other since they were in Fourth form. There were squabbles here and there, but they were almost of the fraternal sort and smoothed out with relative quickness.

For the culprit to have aroused the smothered enmity of his fellows to the extent that Sherlock was able to pick up on it meant that there had to be some fairly deep-seated hostility. That only seemed possible if the person in question was a negligible player and puffed himself up to appear more than he was … or was perhaps new to the team and having a bit of trouble finding his footing.

Mycroft blinked slowly. _New to the team … dark hair … dark eyes …_

“Sherlock.” His voice sounded hollow. “Did any of the others call the person who cut up the Jolly Roger by his name? Or a nickname?”

“No. They didn’t say anything to him, much.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “But I saw his name. Some of it.”

“You _saw_ his name? Where?”

“It was on his jacket. In gold thread. I only saw a little bit of it. G …”

 "G …?” Mycroft felt his heartbeat accelerating. “G-E-E?”

“No. Just the letter. And then his last name. There was an ‘L’ and … and … an ‘E’? I think it was an ‘E’ …”

Mycroft’s stomach lurched and he found he was barely breathing. He almost didn’t notice when Sherlock had stopped talking.

“What … what was after the ‘E’?”

“It … it was … it was …”

Sherlock’s forehead creased, darkening with effort of trying to recall the bits of information.

“I don’t remember!” He sounded anguished. “I didn’t see it for very long. I was trying to grab the Jolly Roger and I looked up and I saw his jacket. I saw the G and the L and I think an E came after that, but I don’t remember!”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft put a hand on his brother’s shoulder to calm him. “You _can_ do this. Remember what I taught you? That everything we see or hear or smell or taste or touch can be stored in different rooms in our mind? The way Mummy stores her manuscripts? And that when we organize things in that way, we won’t _ever_ forget something important and we’ll be able to remember those things when we need to?”

Sherlock sniffed loudly. “The … the Mind Palace. Yes, I remember.”

“Right. The information is in your brain, in one of those special rooms, and you can access it,” said Mycroft. “The person who ripped up the Jolly Roger - you saw his name for a moment. You remember the first initial the first two letters. _Think_. There was something about that name, something you can tell me. What is it? _Think_ , Sherlock.” His voice was urgent.

Sherlock looked steadily at Mycroft, took a breath, and closed his eyes. Mycroft watched the boy go still, only his eyes moving frenetically behind closed eyelids. His lips were tight and he almost looked as if he weren’t breathing. Mycroft found himself going unconsciously still, not wanting even the sound of his breathing to interfere with his brother’s concentration.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes opened and his cheeks darkened with color. His breathing came fast and sharp as he looked up at his brother.

“E!”

“'E'? You said that already. L-E –”

“No, his last name ends with an E!” Sherlock was nearly vibrating with excitement. “There were other letters in the middle, but the last letter is an E. His name is G-something, L-E … and then something ending in – Mycroft?”

Mycroft got to his feet under the confused stare of his younger brother. He avoided Sherlock’s eyes as he massaged the tightness out of his thighs and processed all of what he’d heard.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. New to the football team and the school. Name beginning with G. Surname ending in E. There was only one person fitting that description, who additionally just happened to have a part-time job working in the shipping department of an M&S off Piccadilly … where, no doubt, he had to cut twine and tape for wrapping the parcels to be sent out in the post, and likely found that his trusty pocketknife was the best tool for the job.

“Lestrade.” Mycroft muttered, staring at the floor. “Gregory Lestrade.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock mulled that. “ _That_ ends with an E?”

Mycroft nodded and spelled out the name, slowly. He still was not looking at Sherlock.

“It seems like it should be pronounced _Lestrade_.” Sherlock pronounced it to rhyme with “he paid.

Mycroft shook his head. “Teachers often made that mistake. At first.”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the looks on some of their faces when the well-built boy with the dark hair and the dark, piercing eyes, gently, but firmly corrected them.

“It’s French.” Mycroft took a breath. “Or it was. _L’Estrade_. It means podium. Or platform.”

“Is he your friend?”

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, startled.

“No, of course not. We’re definitely not _friends_.” He almost spat the last word. “Why would you think we were?”

“Because you look …” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Do you remember how Mummy looked when Dad couldn’t go to hear her talk about her books? She wasn’t angry and she wasn’t sad – well, she was a little, but not much. But she was … ” He pursed his lips, trying to dredge up the correct word.

"Disappointed,” murmured Mycroft.

“Yes. That.” Sherlock was staring up at him. “She was _disappointed._ That’s how you looked just a minute ago. If you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t have looked that way, and if you didn’t know him you wouldn’t, either. So I thought he be might your … friend.”

The slight pause would have been telling if Sherlock weren’t too young to understand or even take interest in _certain_ … things and _certain_ … nuances of some subsets of human behavior.

Still, Mycroft regarded his brother warily. He knew that lying to Sherlock of would be useless – not that he was inclined to do so, anyway. Lying would indicate that he had something to hide, and he most decidedly had _nothing_ to hide as regarded Gregory Lestrade.

Besides, it was true. They were _not_ friends. They weren't _anything_.

“You have that _look_ on your face again.”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. He supposed he should have felt relief that Sherlock had recovered enough to act so prattish. He shrugged a little and combed his hair back from his forehead. He didn’t miss the slight quirk in Sherlock’s eyebrows as he watched him.

_You’re stalling and he knows it. Just get on with it, already. Don’t make it worse than it is._

“He _is_ new. To the school and to the city. He lived in the South-West somewhere. Near Dorset, I think,” said Mycroft. “I tutored him for a while. In maths.”

Sherlock frowned. “You tutored _him_? How? He’s older than you are.”

“I’m in the advanced maths programme, and at the top of the class,” said Mycroft, a bit defensively. “An exception was made in my case. Of course, not many L-8s or U-8s come to _me."  
_

He paused. “Lestrade did. For a while. And then he stopped.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He hadn't needed much of my help, really. He could've gotten by without any tutoring in maths at all.”

Mycroft saw Sherlock gazing dubiously at him again and the skin on the back of his neck prickled.

_He’s getting to be good at this. I was better, at his age, but he’s still coming on remarkably well. Even I won’t be able to fool him completely for very much longer._

“Maybe he didn’t just didn't like _me._ He wouldn’t be the only one at school to have those feelings.” Mycroft’s voice was light. “I really don’t know. He stopped coming to my tutoring period, but I saw him with another tutor a while afterward.”

Sherlock was quiet awhile, thinking. “The other tutor must have something you don’t. Something he likes better.”

Mycroft had to keep himself from snarling. Sure, Philip Anderson was good in maths, but _not_ better than he was. Furthermore, while Anderson was attractive in a sort of old-world, Teddy Boy-meets-urban-hipster way, Mycroft was sure that Lestrade wasn’t much into that.

He could only surmise what _did_ prime Gregory Lestrade’s pump, so to speak, but whatever he saw in Anderson, it wasn’t _that._

“Maybe. But Gregory Lestrade and I are not _friends_ , in any case.” Mycroft rubbed his chin. “He seemed a decent sort. Of all the people on the football team, he’s about the last one I would have expected to do something like _this_.” He glared at the pile of cloth. “I suppose I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” Sherlock’s eyes were enormous. “But you’re _never_ wrong!”

There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his baby brother’s voice, and Mycroft half-grinned. It was somewhat gratifying to know that even now, Sherlock still believed him to be almost infallible.

“Well, I was wrong in this case. It happens, and it likely will happen again – sometime.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But _don’t_ get used to it.”

Sherlock returned a somewhat watery smile. “Will the Jolly Roger really be able to be fixed?”

“Yes. Think of that movie we saw about the pirates who were under attack on the Spanish Main. The one where the enemy ship sent a cannon right through their flag of piracy and left a big hole in it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, do you remember that the pirates didn’t let that bother them? They patched it up and ran it back up the flag staff because they wanted to show their enemies that whatever else, they were going to fight and they were not intimidated and were stronger than ever?”

Mycroft scooped up handfuls of the ruined cloth. “ _T_ hat is what _we’re_ going to do. We will send this to Mrs. Hudson and she’ll stitch it together again, and the stitches will _show._ It will be better than before, because every time you look at the Jolly Roger, you’ll know that _you_ got the better of these idiots. And _they_ will know it, too.”

“But, Mrs. Hudson isn’t here anymore, remember? She’s in America.” Sherlock’s face clouded. “With that _man_.”

Mycroft’s expression mirrored his brother’s. Sometimes he did forget that Mrs. Hudson’s antisocial wastrel of husband had dragged her across the ocean. Mycroft was reasonably certain the man would kill someone some day. He could only hope that the object of his rage would _not_ be his wife.

“Yes, but her online shop is still open and she is still taking orders. Mrs. Turner told Mummy she’d just placed an order with Mrs. Hudson for a blanket,” said Mycroft, warming to the topic as he saw his brother begin to smile. “We’ll send the Jolly Roger to Mrs. Hudson and she’ll send it back, better than new. Mrs. Turner says that Mrs. Hudson often goes to Key West, and that’s where some of the pirates had their summer homes. She may even be able to add a new bit of cloth or two.”

Sherlock’s smile dimmed. “But won’t it take money to do that? I don’t have any. I spent all my Christmas and birthday money on my new chemistry set, and I have to get a new large RB flask because I accidentally melted the last one."

“Don’t worry about the money,” Mycroft said. “It will be taken care of by the person who caused this damage in the first place.”

“What do you mean? He laughed about it, why would he pay to get it fixed?”

“Because he and I are going to have a bit of a chat,” said Mycroft with a grim smile. “And I’m sure he’ll have no problem with coming up with the money.”

“Why would he listen to you? Sebastian’s brother probably told him you’re _my_ brother, and he probably doesn’t like _you_ either.”

Mycroft flinched at the words. He knew that Sherlock meant nothing by them, and he was probably right, besides – at least as pertained the last thing.

But the first …?

“Do you remember that boy from my school who tripped you when you were on the way to the Common last winter for the sledding party?”

Sherlock thought a moment. “Oh. The boy with the dirty neck? The one Mummy said was in hospital over Christmas?”

“Yes. I had a bit of chat with _him_ after that incident, and as a result he found that he had to leave the rugby team because something very unfortunate happened to his foot.” Mycroft’s voice was soft. “His mother told the Highmaster that his limp will very likely be permanent.”

A long look of understanding passed between them, and Mycroft fancied he saw a glint of admiration in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Now, come along, Sherlock. Wipe your tears, and eat the snack Mrs. Turner prepared for you. We’ll watch _The Crimson Sail_ after you’re done.”

“Yes! There are two new ones since the last time we watched it.” Sherlock looked eager. “But do we _have_ to see the boring snogging and hugging and all of that?”

Mycroft gave a knowing grin and offered his brother a hand up, hauling him gently to his feet.

“No, we’ll fast-forward straight to the hangings, whippings and eviscerations, I promise.”

Sherlock was beaming as he tucked into his biscuits and milk, speaking to Redbeard in his best pirate voice about “scurvy scoundrels” being put to the sword.

Mycroft watched him for a moment, his grin fading when Greg Lestrade’s handsome face flashed into his mind’s eye. He recalled Sherlock’s initial pronunciation of Lestrade as rhyming with “he paid.”

He grit his teeth. Yes, Greg Lestrade _would_ pay. One way or the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg's school is fictional but it is based on an independent boys' school called St. Paul's located in London. Sherlock's school is fictional, as well, but based on nothing in particular. :D


	2. Chapter 2

“Well why else would you ask about him unless you fancied him?”

Mycroft gave his companion a nasty glare, frowning heavily when the only reaction to his displeasure was a languid grin and slightly lifted eyebrows.

“For the last time, I _don’t_ fancy him.”

Mycroft spoke through clenched teeth, averting his eyes briefly. _Not anymore, at least_.

“I simply need information – _if_ you have any.”

“Come off it, Mycroft. If you think I didn’t have any information, you wouldn’t have asked me in the first place.”

The tone was subtly teasing, and Mycroft was just able to refrain from rolling his eyes. If there had been one mocking note in that voice, the conversation would have ended then and there.

But teasing? Teasing he could put up with. He supposed he’d earned it, anyway, by opening the line of questioning the way he’d done, with no preamble, no working up to the subject, just wading into it like an idiot.

Mycroft had realized his mistake the minute he’d spoken, but it couldn’t have been helped. He’d been caught flat-footed when Gregory Lestrade, leading a phalanx of his football mates, had entered the dining complex. There wasn’t any trace of derision or contempt in Lestrade’s expression, which rankled at Mycroft. He’d not detected in Lestrade the sort of cold-bloodedness necessary to harass a child and willfully destroy property.

While it _had_ been evident that there was quite a bit more to Greg Lestrade than met the eye, Mycroft now wondered if far from simply being somewhat shy and introverted in new surroundings that there wasn’t something much more sinister lurking beneath those good looks and athletic prowess.

He’d been pondering this when, in passing the table at which he sat with his lunch untouched in front of him, Greg turned his head and had given him the sort of broad smile that just days earlier would have had his stomach doing somersaults.

As it was, his heart had pounded and his face had burned bright red under Lestrade’s bright grin, but he was able to squelch any treacherous thoughts by recalling Sherlock’s devastated expression and the crumpled black cloth at the boy’s feet.

Mycroft had stared at the throng as they’d settled into their nook, the latent anger that had been simmering ever since the day before beginning to sharpen and expand, his hands closing into tight fists on the table. That pillock Lestrade had traumatized his baby brother and had the nerve to _smile_ at him as if they were old mates, without a hint of guilt or the slightest bit of shame.

“Are you sure you don’t fancy him? He’s got a nice arse, at the least.”

Mycroft started slightly, but covered the motion with a cough. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that he’d been so caught up in Greg Lestrade’s smile that he’d completely forgotten that he wasn’t alone.

“‘Nice arse?’ Is that the sort of thing you chat about up at Balmoral?”

“You’d be surprised. It’s not all grouse hunting and whisky routs – at least not lately since the old git hurt his hip.”

Mycroft snickered darkly. While he considered most of his classmates to be run-of-the-mill dullards, there were some bright lights here and there. Before the incident with Sherlock and the Jolly Roger, Mycroft would have placed Lestrade in that class, but that was at an end, to say the least.

But his lunch companion certainly fit the bill. The Hon. Henry St. John Mortimer-Lennox – "Harry" to those who bothered to call him anything except “that half-royal twat” – was both quite typical of his sort and, on the other hand, quite an unusual fellow. He was related to Her Majesty and the royal family in any number of ways, and had the languid sort of disregard for just about everything having to do with “normal life” that seemed ingrained in the nobility.

Harry spoke about the family estate as if it were no more significant than a local Sainsbury’s, talked of having been at “The Wedding” and “The Christening” as though he were speaking not of the social events of the decade but of a garden ‘do with Old Tom and bacon butties as the main attraction.

Mycroft was sure some of Harry's studied nonchalance was feigned, but not much of it, as he was used to being something of a non-factor even in his own life. Harry was the second youngest of seven boys, largely lost among his older brothers and paid scant attention by his distracted parents. His one act of rebellion had been to refuse to attend Eton as had his older brothers and where his little brother was at the moment, insisting that he wanted something of a “normal” secondary school experience with the sort of people to which he’d been brought up from birth being told that he was superior. His parents had acquiesced and sent him to St. Xavier’s, but had made it clear that he would not escape his destiny of Sandhurst and a subsequent career in the Royal Army as a gentleman officer.

He was one of St. Xavier's few boarding students, going home every other weekend. Though he was tall, blond, rich and good-looking, he was almost as much an outcast at the school as was Mycroft, so their friendship wasn’t as unusual as it might have seemed just going on appearances. Had he been the sort to flaunt his pedigree then others would have followed suit by fawning over him while secretly despising him.

But Harry disdained anyone who treated him well because of his bloodline, and moreover, let those people know that he found them to be idiots, and so students and teachers gave him a wide berth. Harry liked Mycroft, he said, because Mycroft didn’t bother hiding his admiration of his pedigree but at the same time didn’t trip over himself trying to get into his good graces.

Also, he enjoyed how Mycroft seemed to “know things,” as he called Mycroft’s talent for deduction. He’d been amazed, for example, when Mycroft had been able to reckon out the quiet separation of his step-grandparents well before the news hit the gossip pages just based on the snacks Harry had brought back after a visit to their estate.

More than their unlikely friendship, however, Harry had an additional use to Mycroft at the moment. As a rather reluctant member of the football team, Harry could tell him all he’d need to know about Greg Lestrade. Mycroft always drummed into Sherlock’s head the importance of gathering data before coming to any sort of conclusion about a given situation.

Mycroft knew he needed data – lots of it. Greg Lestrade had fooled him, had fooled him badly. That didn’t happen much, and Mycroft was determined to figure out why and how. Even if he _had_ been thinking with one hand down his pants – so to speak – when it came to Greg Lestrade, physical and sexual attraction alone could not explain how he’d so misread the other boy’s character. He was counting on Harry to help him fill in the gaps, intending to subtly pump his friend for information.

 _That_ plan had disintegrated, however, as soon as Lestrade had looked at him and smiled. Damn him.

“So if you don’t fancy him why do you want to know anything at all about him?” asked Harry, carefully opening a packet of crisps. “Doesn’t seem to be the type you’d have as a mate. Not that he’s stupid or anything. At least, I don’t think he is. Keeps himself to himself, really.”

“Does he?” murmured Mycroft. _Now_ he was beginning to get somewhere. “That isn’t what I would’ve expected. I don’t think of anyone on the football team as being particularly shy.”

“Didn’t say he was _shy_ , did I? Just that he’s not flashy and all over the place the way some of them are. He’s a bit quiet,” said Harry. “He _is_ pretty good on the pitch, though. Brilliant strike got us ahead yesterday and just opened up the floodgates against St. Paul’s. Gorsam talks him up like he’s the next Glenn Hoddle.”

Mycroft nodded absently.  Jem Gorsam was the often-overenthusiastic head football coach who didn’t bring half as much energy to teaching the Economics course that Mycroft had suffered through in Fifth Form. He was known to have his “favorites” on the football team, but they were usually players of long-standing as well as ones of great skill. A newcomer like Greg Lestrade being the apple of the coach’s eye would definitely not sit well with older, more established members of the team.

“I’m sure that must make him popular with the U-8s,” said Mycroft. “Head football coach kissing the arse of an L-8, and a new boy at that? No wonder Moran hates him.”

“Moran?” Harry gave him an odd look. “What makes you think Moran doesn’t like him?”

“Moran doesn’t like _anyone_ so it’s not much of an educated guess,” said Mycroft. “But apart from that, I happen to know for a fact that he despises Lestrade and doesn’t exactly try to hide it.”

“Where’re you getting _that_ from?” Harry was staring at him. “Moran likes Lestrade. I thought he was going to snog him after that first goal yesterday. He was the one who insisted we carry Lestrade off the pitch on our shoulders after we finished pounding those Pauline duffers into the ground.”

Mycroft paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“That doesn’t sound like the Moran I know.”

“What do _you_ know about Moran?”

“I know enough,” said Mycroft with a shrug. “Our parents have chatted at Family Nights in the past. Also, his younger brother attends Ogilvee School with Sherlock, and –”

“Sebastian?” Harry shook his head. “I hope Sherlock keeps his distance. Something’s wrong with that one. I think even Creighton’s afraid of him.”

“What do you mean? Moran is twice his brother’s age _and_ likely twice his size.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes size really _doesn’t_ matter.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Harry _would_ know about that subject, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

“How do you mean?”

“We were on an overnight to play Nottingham and somebody saw a nasty gash on Moran’s thigh. Cut almost to the bone and stitched up pretty sloppily,” said Harry. “He tried to bluff it, but he got a few ales in him and it came out he’d been cut by his own little brother. Said it was a game, but I know I’m usually not messing about with Frederick when Bowie knives are involved. Anyway, to hear him tell it, he could've bled to death. Something about some telly program Sebastian wanted to watch that Moran wasn't keen on.”

“What did their parents do about it?”

“Nothing. Moran didn’t tell them. He went to a clinic outside Hackney and got stitched up by a locum rather than going to the private surgery his mum works in. I suppose he didn’t want his parents to know he’d gotten his arse handed to him by his little brother.”

Mycroft digested this bit of information in silence. He recalled Sherlock’s mentioning that Creighton often was called upon to collect his younger brother when he was given after-school detention. It could simply have been a matter of convenience – both parents did work outside the home, after all – but Mycroft was now wondering if Creighton was the only person who had any appreciable sway with young Sebastian and was able to corral him when he got too out of pocket. If that were true, it seemed that the older brother’s influence on the younger was ebbing away, if the story of the knife wound was any indication.

He thought of Harry's warning to his younger brother to steer clear of the smaller Moran. Sherlock didn’t like the boy and it didn’t sound as he and young Moran had any interaction at all beyond the classroom, still Mycroft thought it as well to reiterate to Sherlock that Sebastian Moran was someone of whom he should steer clear.

“That rot about Lestrade and Moran not liking each other. You’re not talking about that whole Archives row, are you?”

Mycroft started to speak, but thought better of it, giving a casual shrug.

“If I said yes, you’d just tell me I was wrong.”

“No, it’s just that was ages ago. Last term, I think.” Harry frowned in thought. “It was only for a moment, and then – _wait_ a minute. What do _you_ know about that? I know I never mentioned it. Who else do you talk to on the team?”

Mycroft hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt, and it took all his self-control not to squirm under his friend’s incisive stare.

“I _do_ tutor people on the football team, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Right, but only Sixth Formers and lower, and this is something only L-8s and U-8s would know about.” Harry leaned forward, grinning. “Nice try, though, Mycroft. I think I’m starting to catch on to your game!”

“Piss off,” Mycroft mumbled, staring down at his plate. His food had long since gone cold and nothing looked at all appetizing. What in the name of hell was _wrong_ with him today? He hadn’t been so inept in seeking information since he was six years old and demanded his parents explain to him just _how_ exactlyhe would be getting a little brother to play with. Thathad been _such_ a fun conversation.

“I’ll make you a deal,” said Harry. “You tell me why you’re so keen to know about Lestrade, since you _don’t_ fancy him and all, and I’ll tell you what happened between him and Moran last term. Or anything else you’d want to know.”

Mycroft kept his eyes down. Harry wasn’t a gossip, but that wasn’t really at issue. Even though he was just nominally a member of the football team, Harry would be honor-bound to thwart any plans to give his teammate comeuppance. It was one of those silly “unwritten rules” of sport, and one of the many reasons Mycroft could never see himself joining a team. Well, that and the running. 

“You’re wrong,” said Mycroft, lifting his head. “I _did_ have an upperclassman in my tutoring queue. Lestrade.”

“You tutor him?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know that. Since when?”

“Past-tense. I _tutored_ him,” said Mycroft. “Just for a bit this term. He stopped coming to me and switched to Anderson’s queue.”

“All right. _And_?”

Mycroft wet his lips. All right, maybe he could work with this.

“ _And_ I don’t know why he stopped.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ the High Master was already against my being put in upper-level maths to begin with. He only allowed it because my mother, er, persuaded him.”

Mycroft smiled a bit. Mummy could be terrifying when she was up against any opposition, especially when it concerned her sons.

“If Lestrade complains to him about my tutoring, he might not let me continue in the Peer Tutoring scheme and go into U-Level maths next year, and _that_ means I might not be able to take my A Level in maths next summer like I’d planned.”

Harry gave him a sideways glance. The twist of his lip indicated that he wasn’t completely buying it, but he seemed to be conceding that this was as much of an explanation as he was going to get.

“I don’t think he’d say anything to the High Master,” said Harry. “It probably wasn’t even about _you._ Someone probably told him that Peer Tutors usually are in your year or older and it might’ve gotten on his wick that he was getting tutored by a Sixth-Former. Anderson’s a U-8, so it probably just worked better for him.”

“I suppose, but I couldn’t be sure,” Mycroft tried to sound indifferent. “I don’t really know what sort of person Lestrade is. I only tutored him three weeks. Now what was this Archive business about?”

“It’s something that happens in the first term,” said Harry. “Team captain talks to Gorsam and they pick out a few old matches to watch. Out of the team archives, you know. That’s why it’s called _Archives_.”

“Brilliant.” Mycroft’s voice was dry. “So it’s a slumber party with football involved? How collegial”

“Oh, sod off, Holmes. It’s important.” Harry’s brow creased. “Helps us formulate a good plan for the season based on what we can see went right and went wrong in matches from past years. Sort of like the professional leagues do before a big match, studying video and all. It’s just a bit of fun. There’s some ale involved, nothing serious. Food, and that. We usually stay up the entire weekend, and there’s a lot more than just watching football involved.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Mycroft decided he wasn’t going to press that last point. It sounded incredibly clubby and sporting and boring as all hell.

“I stand corrected. Go on. What’s any of this to do with Lestrade and Moran?”

“Well, with Archives, one bloke has to host, and –”

“– I can’t think that many families welcome ten or twelve swaggering boys descending on their homes, eating up everything, making messes …”

Mycroft shuddered. Mummy would probably take such a thing in good-natured stride, but the thought of such an event made his skin crawl.

“Well, Gorsam sort of paves the way in the medical waiver parents have to sign at the beginning of term by mentioning there might be a weekend where the older boys have a get-together at one of their teammates’ homes,” said Harry. “Gorsam used to have Archives at his flat, but I think he figured it’d be better if we did this on our own. I suppose he didn’t want there to be any talk – it does sound a bit odd on the surface for a teacher to have some of his students at his own house for a weekend.”

Mycroft was sure that the coach’s decision had more to do with his struggling to stay on the wagon after fighting alcoholism for the better part of his adult life. If there was “a bit of ale” involved in these things, Gorsam probably didn’t feel as if he were sufficiently strong enough to resist a taste.

“So, to figure out who hosts,” continued Harry, “all the L-8s and U-8s put their names on a slip of paper, and the papers go into a bottle and team captain pulls one out, and that’s the host. It’s usually not a problem.  But when we did it last term, the name that was picked was Lestrade’s. He didn’t understand really what it was all about, but when someone explained it to him, he got pretty tetchy and said it wasn’t on. He couldn’t have it at his.”

“Really.” _Interesting._ “Did he say why?”

“No, he just said it couldn’t happen,” Harry said. “”How it’s supposed to work is, if someone thinks their parents won’t go for it, Gorsam’ll try to sweet-talk them into it. If it’s still a no, then another name gets picked but the person who couldn’t host is in charge of the food and drink and has to toady for the host for a week in compensation –”

“That’s not allowed. You could get suspended for that,” said Mycroft mechanically, frowning as he thought of the ‘toadying’ practice, a form of indentured servitude that had usually been visited upon younger boys by older students, having them run their errands, fetch their lunch, wash their cars, and all other sorts of menial and often humiliating tasks. It had been phased out some years ago as a form of bullying that would not be tolerated.

“No shit. But no one actually tells anyone, you know.” Harry sneered at him. “It just _happens_. Anyway, so someone explains all that to Lestrade and he says he’s not going to have Archives at his and he’s not going to be somebody’s servant because of it, either.”

Despite himself, Mycroft felt a tick of admiration. Lestrade was still a bloody tosspot, but it was gratifying to know that he wasn’t someone who’d allow himself to be swept up in the often-ridiculous practices and ceremonies practiced in school sport clubs.

“Moran got in his face about it, saying that it was tradition and as a new boy he’d better get it into his head that he was part of a team and we had our own way of doing things,” said Harry. “Lestrade told him to fuck off, and they were on the edge of a punch-up, but then Gregson came round and asked what it was all about.”

Mycroft leaned closer, quite intrigued at the entry of the name “Gregson” into the narrative. If anyone could personify the exact nature and habits of a Simmental bull, it would be Timothy Gregson. He was the football team captain, a tall, solid Upper Eighth who looked closer to 40 than 18, and was a taciturn sort off the pitch. He wasn’t brilliant, but he was an extremely hard worker and quite tenacious. What he lacked in imagination he made up for with sheer will and determination, and as such was a force to be reckoned with.

“Moran told him that Lestrade was refusing to host Archive and wouldn’t let Gorsam talk to his parents about it _and_ wouldn’t take the penalty either, and that it wasn’t fair to the other blokes who take their chances and go along with it. Gregson asked Lestrade about it and he said he wasn’t going to do it and if it meant getting turfed from the team, then so be it. Gregson asked for a private word and he and Lestrade went off for a few minutes. They came back and Gregson said we’d do the draw again and Lestrade would toady one week, school hours only.”

Mycroft sat up a bit straighter. “Just like that? Did Gregson give any explanation for the break in _tradition_?”

“No, and Moran started up again,” said Harry. “Then Gregson took _him_ aside and had a chat, and when they came back, Moran was quiet as a mouse.”

“What did Lestrade do during all this?”

“Nothing. Just stood there like it wasn’t any business of his.” Harry rubbed his chin. “It was strange. We did the draw again and that time, Bradstreet got picked. Gregson said the matter was closed and that was that.”

“And you don’t know what Lestrade said to Gregson? Or what Gregson said to Moran?”

“Nope. It was never brought up again. Not many people talked to Lestrade when we were doing Archives at Bradstreet’s – except Moran. Then he started leading in goals scored and Gorsam was all over him and everyone was all right with him again. But my point is, Moran’s always been all right with Lestrade except for that one moment. Whoever thinks they don’t get on doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Mycroft’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t respond. His eyes strayed to the table at which Lestrade sat and he stared at the throng of boys all chatting and laughing easily with each other, Greg Lestrade in the midst of the throng. He certainly didn’t appear to be an outcast, and what was more, Mycroft couldn’t discern any artifice in Lestrade’s companions. They were genuinely enjoying his company. Stan Hopkins, a fairly standoffish sort in the best of times, was practically in Lestrade’s lap, in fact –

“… all right?”

Mycroft turned his head. He’d been aware of Harry’s chattering about something, but he hadn’t thought it was anything that required his attention.

“What was that?”

“I said, if you wanted, I could talk to Lestrade,” said Harry. “I don’t think he’s planning to rabbit round to the High Master and grass you up, but if you’re really worried about it, I can get him to stand down.”

“Er, no, that’s all right.” Mycroft's gaze wandered back to Lestrade’s table. “I think I’d better talk to him myself. Just to clear the air and that.”

“Suit yourself. If he gives you trouble, let me know and I’ll have a go at it,” Harry said. “Speaking of tutoring, I’ve got to meet Milverton for study session. Fancy coming round to the Common after classes? The matron’s making scones.”

“Mmm.” Tempting an invitation as it was – more for the tidbits of royal family gossip Harry unwittingly divulged than for the snacks – a tendril of an idea was beginning to unfurl in Mycroft’s brain and he didn’t think it would be wise to glut himself on baked goods beforehand if he hoped to carry it off.

“Another day, maybe.” Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on the back of Greg Lestrade’s strong, tan neck. Odd that he’d retained such coloring even through an entire winter in London. “I have something I’d like to get sorted after school, and then I have to get home.”

“Right.” Harry began gathering his things. “Well, ring me if you have any troubles with Lestrade. I still think you should let me have a go at him. We’re teammates and all. You barely know him. He’s probably forgotten you, really.”

Mycroft winced at the words. Harry was likely correct, but hearing it put so baldly was more painful than he would have thought. But that was forgotten in another moment, and Mycroft’s eyes went huge.

Greg Lestrade had angled away from the table, twisted his head round, and for some inexplicable reason, was looking straight at him.

Mycroft was too taken aback to do much except stare back. He knew that if he averted his eyes, Lestrade would know that he’d been the subject of his scrutiny, but gaping at him like a fish probably wasn’t exactly the best course of action either.

“Sure you don’t fancy him?” Harry’s voice was close by his ear. “He really does have an ace arse. I’m not even really into that, and I’ve noticed.”

“Quiet!” Mycroft spoke between tight lips. “He’s looking right over here, you idiot!”

“Right, because from that distance he can hear us.” Harry laughed and raised his hand to wave at Lestrade.

Mycroft tensed, hoping Greg wouldn’t see that as an invitation to come over. He was half-relieved and half-disappointed when the boy returned Harry’s wave while darting another quick, slightly puzzled look at Mycroft.

“He does a nice arse, I suppose,” Mycroft murmured, feeling his forehead heating up. “But that doesn’t mean I fancy him. Because I don’t.”

Harry just laughed again and thumped Mycroft on the back, leaving him alone to contemplate his cold meal and Lestrade’s odd posture. He was turned back toward his friends – mostly – but his lower body was twisted to the side as if he were preparing to slide off the bench.

Mycroft couldn’t be sure, but he almost fancied that Lestrade was watching him out of the corner of his eye. But he then turned his body completely around and Mycroft again saw the broad, golden neck, the wide set of shoulders that strained his suit jacket. Lestrade’s dark hair was beginning to come free from its carefully brushed configuration, but far from looking unkempt it added an almost rakish charm.

Mycroft glowered at Stan Hopkins’ obvious attempts at flirtation with Greg and as he didn’t notice any sort of anger or repugnance on Lestrade’s part, it confirmed what he’d more or less guessed quite a bit earlier about Greg’s preferences in that regard. _Not_ that he fancied Hopkins, thank goodness –

_Well, even if he did, I wouldn’t care. It would serve him right to get tied up with a moron like Hopkins. Maybe Lestrade has an earwax fetish._

Mycroft brought his hands together and rested his chin on steepled fingers, his eyelids drifting half closed as he allowed his subconscious free reign. There was something … not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and it wasn’t just the camaraderie that Lestrade seemed to enjoy with most of his teammates. That meant very little in the grand scheme, actually, since it wasn’t the entire football team that had witnessed Lestrade’s attack on Sherlock.

Additionally, he didn’t entirely buy Harry’s insistence that Moran and Lestrade were the best of friends. Harry wasn’t a particularly observant person, after all, and Moran might be playing his own game in that regard. For whatever reason, Gregson had decided to side with Lestrade in that stupid Archive business. Not even Moran was foolish enough to butt heads with his captain, and Moran had a good chance of taking Gregson’s place next year when he was an U-8. If and when that happened, he’d be able to deal with Lestrade as he saw fit.

Still, there was something that prodded at the edge of Mycroft’s conscious mind as he attempted to recreate the scene in his brain. He felt a vein in his forehead throb when he imagined Lestrade smirking down at Sherlock as he ripped the Jolly Roger apart, his two accomplices looking on with glee as their compatriot put on a show for them …

Mycroft gnawed his lip as he watched the pace of Lestrade’s interactions with the others at the table, noticing that while he appeared cheerful on the surface, there was an air of fatigue around him that was almost palpable. He wasn’t getting much sleep and there was a restless quality to his movements. Lestrade seemed to be hurrying through lunch as if he couldn’t wait to escape the spotlight.

_Interesting … he’s making attempts to blend in, but he hasn’t quite gotten there. His hair, his demeanor, even the things he chooses for lunch. He tries to make the same choices as the others, but it doesn’t quite work. He’s hoping to hide in plain sight. But why? And from what?_

He sighed softly. Harry had been barely any help. He knew nothing more about Greg Lestrade than he had when he’d been tutoring him. The strangeness between Lestrade, Tim Gregson and Moran just prompted more questions. Gregson was a standard dullard and it was likely that he was just giving a new boy a break.

That didn’t explain why _Moran_ would go along with it? Other than his not-so-well-hidden penchant for petty thievery, Creighton Moran was the standard blockheaded bully, and not even Gregson could have kept him from pounding Lestrade into the dirt if Moran had wanted to. But he hadn’t done it. Why?

_Think, Mycroft … think … a change of heart that quickly could only be the result of some common ground that was discovered … Moran discovered he and Lestrade had something in common and it swung him to his side. What could it be? They have different backgrounds, different tastes, different ways of thinking. Their family structures are different. Lestrade is obviously an only child and Moran is the oldest with only his hellion younger brother to worry about …_

A jolt ran down Mycroft’s spine and he sat up straighter. Harry’s languid voice floated back to him, the conversation looping through his brain and pausing on one particular point:

… _Didn’t tell his parents because he didn’t want them to think he’d gotten his arse handed to him by his little brother, I suppose. …_

Moran had not divulged the true nature of his injury for fear of ridicule, or, more likely, fear of retaliation by Sebastian, but he’d spilled the beans after a few cheap beers. It stood to reason that just as two Alpha dogs could sniff each other out a block away, Moran had recognized in Lestrade a kindred spirit. Therefore, whatever excuse he’d given Gregson had been immediately parsed by Moran as being one similar to his initial excuse about his thigh wound. If so, it stood to reason that he’d recognized what Gregson likely had not – that Lestrade was refusing to host their little sports weekend because he was covering up something … or covering _for_ someone who had a secret so damaging that Lestrade would have opted to leave the team rather than risk anyone finding out.

His eyes narrowed and he watched Lestrade closely, taking in his slightly tense posture, the way he seemed to check his mobile every few minutes, the smile that was just a touch too stiff to be completely genuine, the distracted nodding. The others were not astute enough to really notice, but Greg Lestrade was there mostly in body, but hardly at all in spirit.

There was something weighing on his mind, and he’d feared that allowing his teammates into his domain would have it bubble to the surface. Harry hadn’t said drinking was mandatory at this “Archives” thing, so Lestrade could have just declined to partake. No, whatever he was covering up was something that could not be explained away by anyone entering his home.

Mycroft knew that the neighborhood in which Lestrade lived was fairly nice, and Greg had his own car, besides, a neat little Mazda – steel grey. His family wasn’t filthy rich but they were prosperous, obviously, especially as he was not on scholarship for his school fees. So it couldn’t have been the condition of the house itself that caused him worry.

There was something else, then. Something much worse.

And then Mycroft’s eyes snapped on something else. A small, coral-colored tube was protruding slightly from one of Lestrade’s back pockets. He searched his memory, knowing he’d seen that sort of object before, and his breath hitched when he unearthed the information. He squinted hard, seeking confirmation – yes, there could be no mistaking what it was. And, if he suppositions were correct, there was little doubt as to its purpose.

Mycroft’s lips flattened into a tight line. There were times that he wished he couldn’t reckon out quite so much. He thought of Sherlock’s innocent recitation of his teachers’ “perfume spraying” and “new shirts.” Mycroft sometimes longed to go back to those days where he could connect the dots but he hadn’t the life experience to reach the conclusions behind the conclusions.

He gazed at the figure at the far-off table and felt a frisson of regret. If he was correct, then Greg Lestrade was not to be envied at all. Quite the opposite. It would follow that he’d take out his anger and frustration the way he seemed to do. There was only so much aggression that could be unleashed on the football pitch, after all.

It _was_ unfortunate, but Mycroft half-hoped that Lestrade would be reasonable as regarded making up for the destruction of the Jolly Roger.  He really didn’t want to have to resort to more extraordinary measures. As sorry as he felt for Lestrade on some level, the boy had done the one thing that he ought never have done. He’d hurt Sherlock. There was no remedy for that except total submission. Or else.

Mycroft took out his mobile and scrolled down in his contacts until he reached Lestrade’s name. He’d thought about deleting the contact back when Greg had stopped coming to his tutoring sessions but he hadn’t done it – for some reason.

Now he was glad he hadn’t, because things would be much easier. Casting another glance at Lestrade’s broad back, Mycroft swiftly keyed in a text, read it over twice, and then sent it, putting his mobile away without looking at it. He then drank the rest of his milk, slowly, and decided that was enough lunch for the day.

Gathering his things to leave, he felt a vibration in his back pocket. Throat dry, he still carefully stacked his tray and cutlery in the proper places before going back to his table to collect his books. In his periphery, he saw a dark head turned in his direction, but he didn’t look over at the table where the footballers sat. He fancied that they were all talking a bit quieter than they had been, but he couldn’t really tell.

It wasn’t until he was out of the dining complex and in the section of the library where he generally was assured complete and utter privacy that he took his mobile out and opened the message that awaited him.

Mycroft read it carefully, and took a moment to think before sending just a single word in response.

One corner of his mouth jerked upward and his brows knit when seconds later, he received a reply in kind.

The game, then, _was_ on.


	3. Chapter 3

The weather was mild for the time of year, but probably not warm enough to go without a coat. Mycroft hadn’t worn his and he shivered a bit in the breeze. He felt a bit exposed out in the student’s car park, ignoring the strange glances and muttering as others filed past him. He wasn’t nervous, exactly – this wasn’t a “pistols at dawn” situation, after all. But he found himself feeling a bit anxious to get on with it.

Mycroft glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. He wouldn’t receive grandfather’s watch and fob until he completed all his A-Levels, but he wished he had the comforting weight of it in his pockets. It would keep him from wanting to pull out his mobile and muck about with it.

It wouldn’t do to be overly distracted. He couldn’t count on Lestrade showing up, after all. If he were walking into an ambush he wanted to at least see it coming, not get blindsided because he was checking to make sure Mummy hadn’t added more embarrassing family photos to her Facebook page.

He looked toward the front doors of the school. The crowd had thinned out with only a trickle of students here and there wandering around the grounds. He recognized some of them as boarders and others as younger boys waiting for their parents or older siblings to pick them up.

Mycroft looked instinctively across the road at the squat red-bricked building inside which his brother sat somewhere, likely bored out of his mind. Sherlock had his violin lesson after his courses and apparently John Watson’s sister was out of her snit because Sherlock had asked Mummy permission to spend the afternoon at the boy’s house. Mycroft didn’t know John very well, but he seemed a rather commonplace sort though intelligent and strong-minded – and strong-fisted, as well. It was an unlikely friendship, and Sherlock doted on the slightly older boy.

Mycroft felt a twinge of _something_ at the thought of Sherlock’s hero-worship of John Watson. Sherlock was growing up and of course he would start to have his own group of friends and spend time apart from his big brother. It was clear to Mycroft, too, that Sherlock was likely going to grow up to be a very good-looking person – unlike himself – and he’d have as much company of any sort that he’d like.

Still, he felt a pang at the thought of growing apart from Sherlock. Recalling Harry’s observation that Creighton Moran had obviously at one time been quite close with _his_ younger brother, Mycroft shivered at the thought of his and Sherlock’s relationship ever degenerating to _that_ degree. He didn’t, however, think Sherlock would ever pull a knife on him and so far Sherlock hadn’t shown any affinity for firearms.

Glancing again at the school’s main entrance and seeing nothing of note, Mycroft grimaced and fished out his mobile.

He reflected that it wouldn’t be a complete surprise if Lestrade had decided to back out. Mycroft was sure, in fact, that Lestrade was going to approach him in Maths class. He’d kept turning around to look at him, just as he’d done in the dining complex, his expression reflective and a slightly puzzled smile on his lips. Mycroft had returned a stony stare the few times he’d caught Lestrade’s eye and then had busied himself with his lesson, pushing any thoughts of what would go on after classes out of his mind.

If Lestrade wanted to call it off, then that was up to him. He was resolved to see things through, whatever happened. His mobile had stayed silent, however, through the rest of the day and through his tutoring hours, and looking at it now, Mycroft saw only one new message and it was from John Watson, informing him that Sherlock’s violin teacher had taken ill and so they were going to John’s house a bit earlier than planned. He smiled a little as he keyed in a response. John wasn’t a bad sort, really. A bit bland and predictable in some respects, but overall, a good lad –

“Oi, Mycroft!”

The shout didn’t startle Mycroft enough to drop the phone, but it was a near thing. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade striding toward him. Mycroft breathed out in relief when it was apparent that Lestrade hadn’t realized how his sudden appearance had startled him.

Finishing his message to John, Mycroft shoved his mobile back into his pocket, arranging his expression into one of casual disdain as he tried not to take notice of how bleeding fit the man walking toward him truly was.

Not for the first time did Mycroft think that Gregory Lestrade was quite possibly the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen. Long lashes fanned over clear, dark eyes that were set in a face that blended a comfortable masculinity with a delicate, almost old-world attractiveness. Though he was well-muscled without being top-heavy or ridiculous, his face held on to a bit of its puppy-fat roundness, which made him appear younger than he was.

As Lestrade came abreast of his car, pliable lips parted into a charming, almost bashful smile. Mycroft didn’t doubt that Lestrade used that smile as a calling card of sorts. Doubtless anyone who’d seen it once could never forget it, and that grin likely proved to be an all-access pass into the hearts, minds, and pants of many an unsuspecting person.

Mycroft felt a slight tugging in his stomach as he faced the full force of that smile, but it dissipated when he saw that Lestrade was attired in _the jacket_. His footballer’s jacket had the requisite dark sleeves and light shading replicating St. Xavier’s colors. On one sleeve were little dark slashes. Mycroft knew that for all non-goalkeepers the slashes represented how many goals that particular player had scored over the course of a season. The upper sleeve was liberally covered in the dark marks, and Mycroft could see why Gorsam was infatuated with Lestrade.

He scowled when he saw he fancy script lettering on the front of the jacket just above the school's crest. G. LESTRADE in gold stitching winked at him, and he ground his teeth, imagining Sherlock seeing the letters from his vantage point on his knees in the bloody dirt.

“Lestrade,” said Mycroft coldly. “Nice of you to keep our appointment.”

“Am I late? Soz, mate. Would’ve been out a little earlier but we had a team meeting that went long,” said Greg. “Then Timmons tried to talk my ear off about some of the conditioning drills we’ve to do next week. I had a hard time shaking him. I know you said you wanted to have a private word. You weren’t waiting long were you?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft’s forehead warmed a bit at the lie. “I won’t keep you, as I’m sure you have _important_ matters to tend to.”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve got to get on to work, but I’ve got a few minutes. They give me a bit of a break during the season on the time, because of practice and games and that.”

“How nice for you.”

Lestrade’s brow wrinkled and a watchful expression slowly came into his face. Watching it settle in, Mycroft felt his back stiffen and his fingers twitched at his sides. On just about anyone else, the expression would have seemed overdone or silly – on Lestrade it looked a shade more menacing than attentive.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about?” Greg asked, jamming his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been trying to reckon out what it could be all day and coming up empty.”

Mycroft’s gaze went to where Lestrade’s hands were bunched in his pockets. There were a few tell-tale bulges there, and not the usual ones you’d find in a young man’s trousers.

 _Right …_ not _the time to start thinking about that._

He could see the small, square outline of what could only be a utilitarian sort of pocketknife - the very tool that had cut the Jolly Roger to ribbons, more than likely. For Lestrade to keep it so close, Mycroft realized that Sherlock had correctly deduced that the older boy used the knife quite a bit in his daily routine. With that in mind, he was a bit nervous that Greg's hand was in that pocket. Mycroft was reasonably sure that Lestrade wouldn’t try anything violent right on school grounds, but he didn’t like that look in Greg’s eyes.

“Have you? Well that’s disappointing,” murmured Mycroft, forcing his eyes up to Lestrade’s face. “I thought you were a bit more perceptive. But, as you’re busy and I am, as well, I’ll cut to the chase.” He gave a large, bland smile. “Seventy five pounds, please.”

The alertness disappeared from Greg’s expression, a befuddled frown taking its place.

“Seventy five pounds? Pounds of what?”

_Ah, so we’re going to play this game? Well, it’s his time. If he wants to be bollocked at work for being late, that’s his business._

“Pounds,” said Mycroft, speaking in an exaggeratedly patient voice. “As in pounds sterling. The coin of the realm. Quid. Knicker. _Money_.”

“What?” Greg’s eyebrows inched upward. “Money? I don’t follow.”

“You don’t need to.” Mycroft’s voice sharpened. “You simply need to give me seventy five pounds within 48 hours, or –”

“ – Wait.” Greg put up a hand and Mycroft flinched a bit but relaxed when he saw there was no knife in it. “Are you saying you want to borrow 75 quid off me?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all.”

“Oh. Oh, good.” Greg looked relieved. “Because I wasn’t sure why –“

“What I’m saying is that you are going to _give_ me 75 pounds within two days.” Mycroft folded his arms. “Cash, if you please. Otherwise, there is going to be trouble. Incredibly bad trouble. For you, that is.”

“What’re you on about?” Lestrade’s eyebrows were climbing skyward again. “Even if I _had_ 75 pounds, why would I just hand it over to you?”

“Because whatever else you might think of me, Lestrade,” said Mycroft, his voice dipping into a lower register, “ _I’m_ not afraid of the likes of you or the other football degenerates. I had thought you were intelligent enough to realize that brawn doesn’t match brains even on the best of days. Is that why you go around bullying people half your size? You figure that at least there, they’ll be overwhelmed by your physical presence? That’s pretty pathetic.”

“What?” Greg’s eyes were wide. “Bullying? What the hell do you mean?”

“I’m not interested in wasting time. Unlike the company you keep, you don’t do ‘stupid’ very well,” said Mycroft. “You have to pay for what you’ve destroyed, and 75 pounds is the price. Will you willingly give me the money by Friday as stipulated, or not?”

Greg began to speak, but then quickly shook his head.

 “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull or if you’re a nutter or what, but I don’t have time for this.  I’ve got to get to work –”

“So you will not give me the money? Is that your final word?”

“No. I don’t have a final _word_.” Greg glowered at him as he took out his car keys and moved toward his vehicle. “At best, I’d have _two_ – and from what I’ve heard about you, I think you’re clever enough to figure out what they are.”

“That’s too bad.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. “Maybe your _father_ will have some different words for me then.”

He almost smiled as Greg stumbled in his movements. He turned toward him all at once, as if he were on a platform, and stared at him.

“What did you say?”

Mycroft did smile then, enjoying the way the color had completely drained out of Lestrade’s face. He wished he could say it made him less attractive, but oh well.

“I believe you heard me just fine. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know what his son gets up to off the pitch.”

He saw Greg swallow, hard. His lower lip trembled and he looked as if he’d been punched in the head.

“You – I don’t –” Greg took a long breath. “You leave my dad out of this, whatever it is. I told you I don’t know _who_ you’re talking about or why you want 75 pounds out of me, but leave my dad alone.”

“I just want to have a friendly chat with him.” Mycroft widened his eyes in facetious innocence. “Nothing too strenuous – or do you think that’s beyond what he’s capable of doing at this point?”

“He –” Greg slowly returned to where he’d been standing. “What are you doing? You don’t know –”

“Oh, but I do.” Mycroft surveyed him coolly. “And you _know_ that I do. Whatever you’ve heard about me being clever, Lestrade, just know that you haven’t heard the half of it. I know all of it – what you’re hiding and why … and why you wouldn’t allow that Archives business to be held at your home.”

Greg flushed crimson. “Who told you about that? You’re not on the bloody team!”

“I have my sources.” Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve gone through so much trouble to keep it all under wraps. Well done. Too bad you had to rubbish it by stepping on the wrong toes.”

“What do _you_ care about it?” Greg’s voice was savage. “I barely even know you and it’s none of your fucking business!”

Mycroft’s eyes were slatey. “You’ve _made_ it my business. Now I’ll say again – 75 pounds, or I will ensure to make it _everyone’s_ business.”

Greg looked at him emptily for a moment. “Bloody hell. You’re serious. People say that you just _know_ things, you just reckon them out somehow like something out of Harry Potter. Is this the secret then? You find out something, overhear it, maybe and then blackmail people? Is that how you get those fancy waistcoats and pocket squares on Dress-Down Day?”

“You call it blackmail. I call it bargaining,” said Mycroft. “You, Lestrade, are not being reasonable. I suppose you thought you’d never be identified as the culprit, and you almost weren’t, but bad luck for you to have run into someone who has almost as good a mind as I have.”

“Nothing you’re saying is making any sense,” said Lestrade, his brow creased. “I thought you wanted to talk to me about …”

He trailed off, looking uncertain. “Never mind. Wrong, I guess. We don’t have anything to talk about, and if you’re the sort of dick to drag my parents into this, then you don’t know anything about them or me.”

“Get off the high horse, Lestrade. The air’s too thin for you up there. I know about you and them or you would’ve driven off five minutes ago. You want to know just _how_ much I know.” Mycroft squared his shoulders. “Fine. I don’t mind showing my hand. It’s so much stronger than yours that I don’t have to worry about it. You’re _here_ because of _him_. You didn’t want to leave your old town or old school or old friends, but you had to. _He_ gave you no choice.”

Greg’s lips trembled but he didn’t move otherwise. Mycroft was faintly impressed. Lestrade was brave, he’d give him that. Utterly transparent, but brave.

“Your mum tries to smooth things over, but it’s rough on her. Rougher now than it was in your old town. She’s happier now, however. It’s easier here. No one knows her or _him_ or what went on down there. She’d hoped that a new start would set things to rights, but it hasn’t. She keeps trying and hoping. A strong woman, your mother. She works hard, but she doesn’t know, does she? You didn’t tell her what went on down there. Why you don’t trust any of your friends around _him_. Why you’re ashamed of him.”

Lestrade dropped his head a little. His eyes looked dull and lightless and suddenly the baby-faced roundness disappeared and he looked … not old, but tired. Tired and a bit sick. Despite himself, Mycroft felt a bit sorry for him. He remembered how Greg attempted to keep his end up in the lunchroom so that his friends would not notice anything amiss. Such a charade had to take a lot of energy, and seeing Greg now was much like seeing all the lights on a stage being cut off at the same time while the actors were still upon it.

“I wouldn’t be so hard on myself if I were you,” said Mycroft. “I’d feel the same in your place. You didn’t have any part in it and yet you’re in it. You try to ignore it best you can, but you can’t, not really. The best you can do is put it out of your mind for as much as you can – football practice, an afterschool job you don’t really need – anything to stay out of the house and away from him as much as you can, because you can’t bear the sight of him. When you’re home, it’s hell. You can’t escape it. You have to put on a glad face and pretend. The worst of it is you have to clean up his messes and pretend you’re fine with it all. Stop me when I’m wrong.”

Greg faced the ground for a few moments before slowly raising his eyes to look at Mycroft.

“Is this how you have your fun? Having a go at people over things they can’t help? I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. It just – happened. It’s not my bloody fault, it’s _his_!”

Mycroft was a little taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Greg’s voice. He thought again of the knife in Lestrade’s pocket, but he was reasonably sure that it wouldn’t be a factor. If anything, Greg was becoming agitated to the point where he’d probably not be able to get the thing out without a struggle.

“Yes. It _is_ his fault. You’ve tried your best, I suppose, to keep it all together. There’s only so much you can do.” Mycroft didn’t like the conciliatory note in his voice. He wasn’t supposed to be commiserating with the enemy, after all. “But that’s not my business. I told you what I wanted – 75 pounds or else, the police will get an anonymous tip along with some very compelling evidence. And, of course, it will be all over school. This _is_ a small neighborhood.”

Greg’s eyes went huge.

“… The police?”

“If you pay me what I ask, I’ll keep my mouth shut, provided that there isn’t any infiltration here or anywhere else where there are children around,” continued Mycroft. “What consenting adults do on their own time is their business, I suppose, even though I hate this sort of thing.”

“What police? What sort of thing?” Lestrade was gaping. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“We don’t like his kind here,” said Mycroft, sneering. “Maybe things were more permissive in the South-West, but your father’s playing a very dangerous game. I’m assuming the only reason he hasn’t been caught out is because he learned his lessons from whatever catastrophe drove your family out of your old home.”

“But what do the police have to do with it?” Greg’s forehead was dark. “It’s not a crime, I mean, he shouldn’t’ve started up with it, but it was ages ago and he didn’t reckon on how it would turn out. Tons of people do it and they don’t have any problems at all. There was one bloke we knew started up at 14 and went on with it through his 70s –”

“That’s no excuse and you know it.” Mycroft eyed him. “Maybe I’ve read you wrong. I thought maybe you weren’t in favor of your father’s activities. But maybe that’s not true. Could it be that this has become a father-son effort?”

His whole body thrummed with energy as the new theory spun out in his minds eye.

“Of course. I’ve been an imbecile. You’re not opposed to it. You’re helping him!”

“What’s so wrong with that?” Greg was owl-eyed. “No, I don’t like it, but yeah, I help a little. We have someone who does most of the work, though, because, well, it does good for my mum to be out of the house and working and all. He likes it better when someone experienced is handling things. I’m sort of rubbish at it, still.”

Mycroft couldn’t speak for a minute. He took a step back and quickly scanned the boy in front of him. He did it again, just to be sure. It didn’t seem likely that he’d missed _that,_ but there it was. All this time, he’d thought Greg Lestrade was a sort of straight-laced fellow, but if he’d only cared to look below the surface …

“You have a competitive spirit,” said Mycroft. “The football team represents a potential line of steady customers for you, but you wouldn’t risk getting your teammates hooked on the junk and fritter your chances at coming out with the league cup. Is that what it happened at your old school? You brought home some of your footie mates in your old town and your father got his hooks in them? It’s even worse than I thought –”

“You’ve lost me again,” said Lestrade. “What junk are you talking about? Those chocolate biccies we used to sell at the chippy? Yeah, they were a little fattening, I guess, but –”

“Drugs, Lestrade!” Mycroft felt that troublesome vein throbbing in his forehead again. “I’m not talking about bloody _cookies,_ I’m talking about the drugs you and your father peddle!”

“Drugs!” Greg’s eyes nearly jumped out of his face. “What the f _uck_ are you talking about? I don’t sell drugs and neither does my dad!”

“Stop, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Mycroft lifted a brow. “I don’t make many mistakes and you fooled me for a bit, but it’s clear as day now. You check your mobile all hours of the day. You won’t allow anyone to meet your father, though your mother is up at school all the time. The _professional_ that lends a hand. My guess is there’s some sort of works on your property. A lab of some sort, and I’m not talking the NPL. That would be sort of hard to explain if one of your friends were to stumble upon it when searching for the bog in the middle of the night.”

Lestrade looked at him for a moment before breaking into scornful laughter.

“You’re cracked. People who say that you don’t have a sense of humor are off the mark. You’re completely buggering mad, but you’re funny, I’ll give you that.”

When he turned, Mycroft stepped swiftly forward, as nimble as a dancer, and plucked the item he’d noticed at lunch that had been sticking slightly out of Lestrade’s back trouser pocket.

“Am I? Then you’ll find this next bit will be hilarious,” said Mycroft dryly. “Care to explain this?”

Greg turned around, his eyes trained on the object in Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft smiled gently, bouncing the object in the palm of his hand.

“No? Allow me then. It’s an ampule of saline solution used for inhalation,” said Mycroft. “Generally it’s used with albuterol for breathing treatments, or in a pinch, as a way contact lens wearers can quickly moisten dry eyes. But it has a curious side usage. Put a bit of cocaine in the bottom of this ampule, shake it well, put it into a nasal spray bottle, and you have the closest form of atomized cocaine that exists on the market today. You don’t wear contact lenses and you have no breathing problems. This is not an ampule that you bought on its own. It’s part of a larger set. My guess is that your father gets them wholesale somewhere. This one is sealed so there’s no cocaine in it, obviously. You likely just absent-mindedly put an unopened ampule in your trousers. Between your busy football schedule and everything else you have going on, I’m sure it was an easy mistake to make.”

“Yeah, you know I never knew that about cocaine.” Greg’s voice was quiet. “You sound like _you_ know enough about it, though, Holmes. You sure talk as if you’re high on _something_.”

“Ha.” Mycroft allowed himself a smile. “Very nice try. Your deflection attempts need work, but I applaud the effort. You obviously didn’t inherit your father’s lack of intellect –”

It was as far as Mycroft had gotten before he was pushed up against a nearby car, an uncomfortable weight pressing on his throat.

His one thought as Lestrade, face purpling, eyes black with rage, pressed a forearm that felt like an iron bar against his windpipe, was that if Greg Lestrade could move so quickly on the football pitch, it was no wonder Gorsam salivated after him.

Greg’s face was so close Mycroft could count the bumps on his tongue and his eyes were furious. Mycroft felt a frisson of panic. As a well-conditioned athlete, Lestrade could hurt him badly, Mycroft knew that.

But he wasn’t going to go down without a fight, not when the image of Sherlock’s tears presented itself in his mind.

“Go on, hit me. Break my nose. Blacken my eye. _Do it_.” Mycroft smiled tightly into Lestrade’s enraged face. “If you think that I don't have it in me to kick your bloody arse, it will be the second-worst mistake you’ve made since you’ve set foot on these grounds.”

Greg seemed to consider that a moment. Some of the ferocity drained from his face but it took several seconds for him to let up the pressure he had on Mycroft's throat and back away.

Breathing heavily, Greg regarded Mycroft through dull eyes and they stared at each other, each half-hoping the other would make some decisive move. Mycroft wanted to massage his throat, but was wary of showing any sign of weakness so he straightened his tie, which had gone crooked in the scrum. He was now positive that Lestrade would not use his weapon on him, and it gave him pause that he had apparently been keen to show off his knife when he’d destroyed Sherlock’s bag.

Then again, that had been different. Greg hadn’t physically harmed Sherlock, after all. He might use an arm bar against someone approximately his age and height, but he hadn’t yet stooped to actually assaulting a weaker opponent.

A thought wafted in the back of Mycroft’s mind that this demeanor didn’t exactly jibe with a person who cheerfully fed young customers to his wastrel, criminal father, but Mycroft waved that away. Introducing someone to marijuana and harder drugs wasn’t the same as knocking a 9 year old child into the dirt.

Still … 

“Like I said, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. It's all gibberish to me.” Lestrade’s voice was as dim as his eyes. “I wouldn’t know anything about how people take cocaine or any other drugs. I don’t know about _any_ drugs except the ones my dad takes. You may’ve heard of a couple. Hydrocodone for starters. Tramadol. Getting this down? For your _police_ report and all.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows nudged upward. Pills? Lestrade and his father ran a pill-selling business? That was somewhat unexpected. Sure, pills were a bit easier to offload than something strictly illegal, but –

“But that’s not all. He was on the heavy stuff pretty bad a while back.” Lestrade was still speaking in that same colorless voice.

“Let’s see, there was the cisplatin – before that it was bleomycin but he had a bad reaction to that, could barely breathe.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows slowly came down again. He felt the blood drain from his face and suddenly Gregory Lestrade smiled at him. It was the smile of a man whose brain wasn’t smiling and his expression was similar to a person who had made up his mind to dive off a cliff.

“The names mean something to you then? Guess you are a clever one after all. These _drugs_ aren’t as exciting as coke you can put in a spray bottle, so I’m surprised you’ve heard of them. Sure you know what they are?”

“They’re …” Mycroft took a breath. “They’re chemotherapy drugs. I … my Uncle Lorne had lung cancer. I know he was on cisplatin for some time. He died two years ago.”

Lestrade’s face softened briefly, a flash of sympathy in his dark eyes before it was submerged in the shadow of a smothered anger.

“My dad’s sick. He just got out of hospital.” Greg spoke softly. “You know, I’d almost enjoy hearing what my dad would have to say about whatever fucking _activities_ you think I’m up to. Because that would mean he’d be able to _talk_. But he _can’t_ , you fucking pillock. He has throat cancer and had a laryngectomy. A complete one.”

Mycroft took a step back, his eyes clouding as he studied Lestrade’s expression. It was one of dignified melancholy, with the squared shoulders and stiff upper lip of a person who had to endure something that many people many times his age had never. Mycroft again saw the stooped shoulders and face lined with fatigue and foreboding.

_Serious … he’s serious. He’s telling the truth._

“I don’t understand.”

Greg looked momentarily caught out. “You don’t understand what? What a laryngectomy is?”

“No, no I know what that is. I just … I’m –”

Mycroft felt his throat closing up, but he wasn’t certain whether it was becoming swollen from Lestrade’s attack or if there was something else at play. His carefully constructed scenario was falling in on him like a house of cards and for a moment, he was at a loss. He knew now that the nearly impossible had occurred:  He had deduced exactly wrong. At no time had the idea of family illness, especially one as profound as to which Lestrade was referring, crossed his mind.

Yet, there it was, slapping him in the face like a cold, wet, dishrag. The signs were so obvious - beyond obvious, really. Anxious expression, distracted body language, smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, closed-off posture, worry lines etched in his otherwise smooth brow.

Mycroft almost wished he could've slapped _himself_. 

“So if you know all about it,” said Lestrade in that same unnervingly calm tone, “then you know that the only thing my dad’s nose does now is drip. And that a bloody hole in his neck does what his nose used to do. And that he’s mute. Like I said, I don’t know much about saline being used to make coke easier to snort or whatever, but I _do_ know that it’s pretty useful for cleaning away the muck that gets crusted around the tube my dad has to wear to keep the hole open so he can _breathe_ and all. It's called a lary tube, if you want to get technical about it, and we go through tons of those little vials a day. It's sterile solution - better than water. We hope he'll be able to do it himself soon, but right now he's busy trying to learn how to feed himself through the fucking feeding tube that they jammed in his stomach. I bet he'd take the shepherd's pie bilge they serve in the complex any day over that chalky shite he has to stuff in four times a day. But then again, maybe not, since his nose is useless now and most of taste comes from scent, so even when he does start on solid foods again it's anybody's guess if he'll actually be able to taste anything.”

Greg slid into silence, his face pink and his chest rising and falling rapidly. Mycroft, meanwhile, could think of no reply. His tongue felt too large for his mouth and there was an odd buzzing in his ears. Lestrade was watching him with a sort of weary curiosity, as if he were expecting something and wanted Mycroft to get on with it already.

Mycroft, however, wanted nothing more than to erase this entire episode, or, barring that, sink into the ground, followed by a mocking chorus of  _Wrong ... wrong ... wrong ..._

"Oi, Lestrade!"

The shout startled Mycroft out of his musings. He saw Greg's expression change to one of confusion followed by one of dread as he cursed under his breath before turning toward the strident voice.

"Everything all right? Is this nesh twat bothering ya? What do _you_ want here, Holmes?"

And, as a clutch of Lestrade's football mates headed straight for them, frowning darkly, Mycroft had to wonder why  _Lestrade_ looked so unhappy. From the looks of it,  _he_ was the one who was about to have a very big problem.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft warily eyed the mass advancing toward them, straightened to his full height and adopted a subtly defensive posture. Creighton Moran was not among the throng, but those who were there were bad enough. Each of them upperclassmen. Each of them footballers. Each of them trouble.

He could see Reid Bradstreet’s sneer from fifty paces. At his elbow was Al Jones, cracking his knuckles in what he thought was a menacing gesture but considering that no sound was produced by the motion, it just looked stupid. And leading the pack, interestingly enough, was Ian Dimmock, a diminutive, somewhat swaggering youth who often tried to compensate for his short stature by picking arguments and trying to out-yell his opponent. He wasn’t nearly as tough as he thought he was, and had gotten a few black eyes in the past that illustrated that point.

While none of the young men in the group were necessarily physically imposing, despite being athletes, Mycroft knew that he was, at the least, outnumbered, and additionally, likely out of luck.

The campus was all but deserted now, save for the boarding students on the other side of car park and a few teachers catching up on work in their offices. It was unlikely, in any case, that there would be any rescue should things escalate to that level.

In his periphery, Mycroft saw Lestrade’s posture stiffen and he again mumbled curses under his breath. Mycroft was almost positive that this hadn’t been a setup of some kind, but he couldn’t understand Lestrade’s anger at the appearance of his comrades. And it _was_ anger – not annoyance or even embarrassment at being seen with the likes of _him_ – but pure anger at their presence, even though their ire was clearly not aimed at him.

“Hey.” Lestrade stepped forward when the trio got close, angling his body between Mycroft and the others. “Thought you lot left ages ago.”

“We were in the weight room. Lats and shoulders day.” Bradstreet eyed Mycroft coldly. “Everything all right?”

“Fine.” Greg’s voice was tight. “Where’re you on your way to now?”

“You sure?” Bradstreet was still glaring at Mycroft and the others closed in. “Saw you jawing with _this_ knobhead from across the quad. He giving you trouble?”

Mycroft’s face burned and he took a step toward Bradstreet, but Lestrade, still in front of him, took a stepped forward, as well, effectively boxing Mycroft out.

“We’re just talking,” said Greg, giving Mycroft a sideways glance that he had no problem deciphering as “ _Keep your gob shut_.”

 “We’ve a project in class and I was asking Holmes if he’d gotten down the books we have to read. I had to … ah, take a call the last few minutes of class. It was an emergency.”

“A class?” Dimmock sounded doubtful. “Holmes is a Sixth Year, what class do you have with him?”

“Maths,” said Jones, before Greg could respond. “You mean that thing on derivatives? Why didn’t you ask _me_? I would’ve given you my notes.”

“Didn’t see you around, did I?” Lestrade’s face had gone a little pale, but his voice was steady and somewhat sharp. “I saw Holmes here, and asked _him_. That a problem?”

The three looked uneasily at each other. Mycroft could tell that they were a bit confused by this sequence of events. They had expected, he reckoned, Lestrade to join in their derision, but not only was he not doing that, but he was unaccountably angry with them. Mycroft had to admit that he was a bit thrown by that last part himself.

“No problem.” Jones shrugged. “Just from where we were, it looked like this clot was giving you a go.”

He grinned nastily at Mycroft over Lestrade’s shoulder. “He’s got this habit of sticking his big, ugly nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Greg began to speak, but this time, Mycroft was too quick for him, stepping around Lestrade to face Jones squarely.

“Well, _you_ would know about sticking things where they don’t belong, Jones, wouldn’t you?”

The boy’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions. His friends glanced at him apprehensively.

Jones cleared his throat and tried to look tough. “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

“How is your sister enjoying that stuffed Paddington Bear?” Mycroft grinned in the boy’s stunned face. “Oh. She hasn’t gotten it yet? Gotten rather attached to it yourself, then?”

He cast a casually exaggerated look at Jones’s trousers, where several months before, he’d noticed what appeared to be a fluffy substance around the crotch area and caught in the zipper. It had taken him some time to place the substance as the downy innards that usually filled stuffed animals. It didn’t take him long to deduce just how Jones would get such material consistently in _that_ area, and the fact that he had a cousin that worked in a toy shop nearby and Jones himself liked to lend a hand during the busy periods confirmed it. Mycroft didn’t feel it was his place to judge Jones’ … activities. Besides, it was much less … messy than using, say, baked goods –

“You sneaking little prick,” Jones snarled. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“Of course I don’t.” Mycroft leaned close to Jones’ ear, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Tell me – do you prefer Paddington to keep his boots on or off?”

Jones’s face blazed and he reeled back as if Mycroft had kneed him in the bollocks.

“You little –!”

He catapulted himself at Mycroft, fists raised, but got nowhere as Lestrade appeared as if by magic between them and grabbed Jones, pulling him away so roughly that the boy nearly lost his balance.

“Are you bleeding insane?” Greg hissed, pinning one of Jones’s arms behind his back. “D’you want us all to get written up? I just saw Mrs. Belen walk round to the carpark. A teacher sees you in a punch-up and we’ll be suspended the next three games!”

Jones breathed heavily through his mouth, glaring darkly at Lestrade before squirming out of Lestrade’s grip. Bradstreet shook his head and half-patted, half-pushed Jones’s shoulder to move him further away.

“He’s right. Not this. Not here.” He glanced at Mycroft before turning to Lestrade. “Timmons said he just saw you leave and we’d hoped to catch up to you and ask if you could you run us down to the Square. I couldn’t get the car today; my sister had to use it to go up to Surrey to get our gran. She’s staying with us the next couple of weeks.”

Greg frowned. “I talked to Timmons 15 minutes ago. What were you going to do if I weren’t still out here?”

“Oh. He made it seem as if he’d just seen you walk out the door,” Bradstreet said. “We would’ve gotten the lorry, I suppose. But we saw you here, and figured we’d ask.”

“Fuck this!” Jones exploded, eyeing Lestrade with barely restrained fury. “You lot do what you want. I’m not getting in a car with _this_ dick.”

“Oh? Do you plan on getting another?” asked Mycroft, his eyebrows high. “All things considered, I can’t blame you.”

Jones’s skin purpled and it took Bradstreet and Dimmock to restrain him this time, with Lestrade still wedging himself between the enraged older boy and Mycroft.

“I think you’d better go,” said Lestrade, looking over his shoulder at Mycroft with a thready smile. “Gotten everything you needed, didn’t you?”

Mycroft looked into Lestrade’s face, his eyes narrowing. He was aware that he could turn his back and then find himself facedown on the asphalt if Lestrade and his friends were to let go of the fuming Jones and let him have his way.

“Yes, I think we’re done here,” said Mycroft quietly, taking out his mobile, his thumb making quick motions as he looked at the screen. “For now, anyway. I have your number if I need more … help.”

Greg’s eyes snapped open in surprise, but Mycroft was already turning to leave. He walked stiffly away from the group, bracing for an attack from Jones or any of the others – save Lestrade, maybe – and was at the other end of the carpark before he realized that no one had come after him. It wasn’t until he pivoted to walk out to the main road that he understood why. In his periphery he could see that Bradstreet and Dimmock had released Jones, but Lestrade had Jones’s jacket in a tight grip and was speaking to him rather animatedly. Mycroft could only imagine what was being said, but whatever it was, it and Lestrade’s fist were keeping Jones in place.

Mycroft mulled that as he took his mobile out and went to his gallery, where a new photo awaited him. It wasn’t his best photography work, but beggars could not be choosers when it came to surreptitious photo-taking. At least he’d remembered to disable the flash. It was very nice, at times, to be a good bit taller than most boys. As he’d taken out his mobile to pretend to look at information Lestrade had, in his turn, _pretended_ to give to him about their Maths project, he’d been able to snap a photo of the boy, full-face.

He scowled down at the frozen face on his screen, trying not to notice the dark eyes and the clean profile and the beautiful mouth. It wasn’t a bad picture, come to that, but it wasn’t there for his entertainment. For once and for all, Mycroft was determined to get to the bottom of things, and the photo would be consigned to the recycle bin as soon as it served its purpose.

(*)

Mycroft took a breath and ran a hand that was slightly trembling over his hair. In a calm voice, he said, “Look again. Carefully.”

“What for? I already told you I never saw _him_.” Sherlock looked up from Mycroft’s mobile wonderingly. “He’s smiling, but he’s sad. He knows the smile doesn’t help but he does it anyway. John does that sometimes, too.”

Mycroft inhaled slowly. This was no time to get into John Watson and his admittedly less-than-ideal domestic situation. With any luck, the Watsons would give up the pretense and do what was best for their children and divorce finally.

But that was a non-issue. Sherlock was still gazing up at him, his eyes troubled. Mycroft suddenly realized the reason for Sherlock’s concern: he had been holding his breath.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft pressed his lips together. “You say you’ve never seen the man in this picture.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I told you that three times, Mycroft. Who is he?”

Mycroft’s eyes closed. No. _No_.

“Sherlock. This …” He breathed in again. “This is Greg Lestrade.”

Sherlock looked sharply at the photo on the small screen of the mobile. “No it isn’t.”

Mycroft slowly opened his eyes again. _How? How did I get this so wrong? So bloody wrong? How?_

“Yes, it is. I took his photo so that you could identify him. This _is_ Gregory Lestrade.”

There was silence. Sherlock studied the photo intently, even turning the mobile around so that he could see the picture in a landscape format. Finally, he shook his head.

“This isn’t the person who …” Sherlock cast an anguished glance at the corner of his room where the Jolly Roger sat in tatters. “… did _that_. This isn’t him. This can’t be Lestrade.”

“But it is, Sherlock.” Mycroft sat heavily on the bed. “This is truly Greg Lestrade. The lettering on the jacket – are you _sure_ about what it said?”

“Yes!” Sherlock’s cheeks were red. “I know it, I remember, I saw it! That’s what it said, I’m not wrong, Mycroft, I’m not!”

Mycroft studied Sherlock’s earnest face, saw the wide blue eyes and he nodded a bit. He had no doubt that Sherlock was telling the truth. He’d never uttered Greg Lestrade’s name outside of school so it was not a question of Sherlock having stored the name in his subconscious and pulling it out in a time of stress. The only conclusion to be drawn was that Sherlock’s assailant _had_ been wearing a jacket that had G. Lestrade written on it.

That could only mean one of two things: The culprit had a duplicate jacket made with Greg’s name on it for some unknown reason or the culprit had laid his hands on Lestrade’s jacket. Both options seemed unlikely: The jackets were expensive, though not prohibitively so, but moreover, the club secretary took the orders for them. It would have been noticed, Mycroft was sure, if _two_ G. Lestrade jackets had been ordered, especially if one of those orders had come from someone who _wasn’t_ Lestrade.

As to the second point, Lestrade had obviously worked hard at his afterschool job to pay for the jacket and had patched it in the torn places and obviously washed it himself. He wouldn’t take such care of a garment and then lend it to one of his teammates that likely had their own jacket to wear. Yet, the assailant had to have been someone else on the football team, of that Mycroft at least was 100 percent sure.

“Well,” he said bleakly. “We’ll just have to go over it again. Describe the person you saw –”

“- Mycroft,” Sherlock cut in. “I – I saw it. I didn’t make it up.” He looked at his brother with horrified eyes. “I _did_ see it. That name.”

Mycroft put a hand on the thin shoulder. He knew that Sherlock was often accused of “having an overactive imagination” - or worse - when he made deductions, sometimes by people who knew better but were annoyed or afraid by Sherlock’s pronouncements. The little boy couldn’t help himself from speaking out, however, even with the knowledge that he might be ridiculed or called down for it. Mycroft admired that in his baby brother, all the more because he knew that Sherlock was beginning to be able to discern those who knew he was telling the truth but preferred to disbelieve him or denounce him anyway.

“I know you did, Sherlock. It’s all right. It was a mistake, but one that could not have been foreseen.”

“But I got it _wrong_.” The little boy looked shell-shocked. “I got something _wrong_ , Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled wearily. “It happens, Sherlock. To everyone. Even me.”

His smile wavered when he thought about just _how_ wrong he’d gotten some things.

“Deducing incorrectly can be a learning experience, if you can go back and see where you went wrong and then make sure you don’t make a similar mistake under similar circumstances.”

He explained his theory about the jacket, and as Sherlock listened, the blush faded from his cheeks and his forehead lined in thought.

“Maybe he stole it?” Sherlock pulled in his lower lip. “He does that. He likes to take things that don't belong to him. I could tell - he does it a lot, and to a lot of people. Maybe he took the jacket.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I don’t think so. Something like that would have been reported, and we have to assume that if this person is on the football team, he has his own jacket. Why would he want Lestrade’s?”

“So he could fool people into thinking he was the other boy?” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed hopefully. “He might have wanted to do something bad and have it blamed on G. Lestrade.”

“Yes, but you’ve got to keep in mind that he was walking with people who knew for a certainty that he _wasn’t_ Lestrade,” said Mycroft. “Also they probably would have wondered why he had Lestrade’s jacket and not his own in the first place.”

“But that’s what happened,” said Sherlock, sounding a bit angry. “He wore it and I thought it was G. Lestrade and it wasn’t, so why couldn’t he have planned to make G. Lestrade take the blame for the Jolly Roger?”

“Because, Sherlock, he couldn’t have planned to destroy the Jolly Roger _before_ he saw you.” Mycroft paused. “For your theory to work, this person would have had to have reckoned on doing what he did and set things up accordingly, including the theft of the jacket. But you said yourself that the only reason you were walking past St. Xavier at all during that time was because your plans with John had changed. This person could not have known that in advance. Unless –”

Mycroft blinked. “Wait. Whoever this was, was walking with Creighton Moran. Is it possible Creighton’s brother phoned him to tell him that you were going home?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sebastian doesn’t have a mobile anymore. He broke it and his parents won’t get him another until Christmas. If he needs to use one he uses James Moriarty’s. And he wasn’t even there when John told me that his sister was being a – not nice. He’d already gone home.”

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. He’d thought it was a long shot, but at least that was settled, anyway.

“Let’s put the jacket aside for a minute. Can you remember anything more about what the person who ripped up the Jolly Roger  _looked_ like?”

Sherlock shut his eyes tight, but opened them after only a few seconds.

“Just … just dark hair and dark eyes. I don’t remember anything else. Just that. And the jacket.”

Mycroft chewed his bottom lip. That wasn’t much help. There were only three blonds on the team, with Creighton Moran being one of them, Harry being another, and the third a Fifth-Former who would not have been in business dress rather than a uniform. There was one ginger who rarely played. The others on the team were dark-haired men of varying heights.

After mentally discarding all those who had light eyes, Mycroft went slowly through the others, trying to see who came close to matching Lestrade in description. He felt the front of his head beginning to hurt as he searched his memory and came up empty. To say that Lestrade stood out for his attractiveness was an under—

Mycroft’s eyes flew open and his jaw dropped as that last thought looped in his brain.

_Bloody hell, I’ve been an idiot!_

He cursed himself for nearly making another mis-step in an afternoon that had been full of them. What had he been thinking? Just because the culprit had been wearing Lestrade’s jacket, it didn’t follow that he looked anything _like_ Lestrade. Sherlock had never seen Gregory Lestrade before in his life, after all, so how would he have known the difference? It still begged the question of why Moran and the other person with him would have kept quiet about things, but first things first.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft spoke in a level voice. “I have two questions that only you can answer. One of them is much more important than the other. We’ll start with the least important question first: What did the third boy look like? The one who is _not_ Moran and the one who was _not_ wearing Lestrade’s jacket. Do you remember?”

Sherlock mulled that a moment. “He was shorter than the other two. He had dark hair and it was combed back with something sticky in it. He had … a mark under his eye. A purple mark. It wasn’t a birthmark, something hit him there.”

“That sounds like Alex Garrideb. He and Creighton are constantly together. He was struck in the face by a bottle cap at lunch a few days ago and it left a bruise. Good. Very good. That fits. You see? You can remember fine details. There's nothing wrong there.” Mycroft stared down at Sherlock, holding his brother’s gaze. “Now, this is the important question Sherlock, and you must think hard. … How did the jacket _fit_ the person who cut up the Jolly Roger?”

“Fit? What do you mean?”

“Was it tight? Was it too long or too short? Any odd bulges?”

Sherlock’s eyes were troubled. “I - I don’t remember …”

“Think, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was still even and calm. “Go back into your Mind Palace. The answer is there. You can bring it out, and this is very important.”

The young boy took a long, noiseless breath in, and his eyelids slipped shut as he breathed out again. Mycroft watched his brother carefully, noted the hectic movement of the eyeballs behind the closed lids, saw the boy’s lips part as he mouthed silent words. His face was pale and the rest of his body was still, save for his eyes and his mouth and the dark curls that trembled with the effort he was using.

He came out of it with a gasp, nearly falling backward onto his bum. Mycroft steadied him with a hand to his shoulder.

Sherlock gazed up at him, his face drawn and tight, and his eyes miserable.

“Too big.” His voice was a near-whisper.

“Too big? The jacket was too big for the person wearing it?”

“Not - not everywhere. But the shoulders were baggy and so were the arms. His arms and shoulders weren’t …”

Sherlock’s eyes were shining, and it wasn’t because of the light in the room.

“It wasn’t his jacket.” Fat tears spilled down his pale cheeks. “I should have known it. It didn’t fit him. _I should have known he was wearing someone else’s jacket_!”

Mycroft looked down at his baby brother’s wet face and swallowed around the large lump in his throat. He recalled his parents’ fussing over Sherlock’s preference for solitude, his sudden outbursts of “uncomfortable truths,” his disdaining of other children as “stupid and dull.” They fretted that Sherlock’s behavior wasn’t “a regular little boy” – whatever that meant – that he was a beautiful child who should be running around, getting scraped knees, eating too much birthday cake at classmates’ parties, and watching children’s programs on telly, not poking around in bee colonies, going for long rambles with just an Irish setter for company, playing “pirates” by himself and being able somehow to pierce through to heart of a matter involving people many times his age, to piece it together and 8 times out of 10, get it spot-on.

Mycroft knew better than anyone, however, that Sherlock was not and never would or could be what their parents – and society at large – wished any more than he had been at that age and how he was now. They simply weren’t wired that way. It set them apart from others and marked them for a singular – and very likely lonely – existence.

But it couldn’t be helped. They hadn’t asked for their gifts, but they couldn’t be ignored, either. Mycroft knew that he could not simply pat Sherlock on the head and tell the boy to forget about it over cake and milk. This could be one of those “teachable moments” so many politicians talked about on telly. And there was no one else _to_ teach Sherlock about such things except for himself. Mycroft had to hope that it would be enough.

“You were devastated by the destruction of the Jolly Roger,” said Mycroft softly. “Emotion – sentiment – can sometimes blind us to the obvious. That’s why sentiment has no place in this sort of business, Sherlock. You must always try to undertake this work with as clear and cool a head as possible without letting any sort of _feelings_ get in the way. Feelings shade things and makes fools of us, at times. You always have to keep that in mind. You will remember this next time, yes?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, wiping at his cheeks. “But now we don’t _know_ who cut up the Jolly Roger.”

“Well, we know who _didn’t_ ,” murmured Mycroft. “That counts for something. And this narrows it down. It was someone approximately Lestrade’s height because you didn’t mention the jacket being overly long or short. However, this person is considerably thinner than Lestrade in the upper-body area.”

He sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and rested his chin in his hand, resorting his short-list of dark haired, dark-eyed footballers. The problem was, most of the footballers were not multiple-sport athletes. Lestrade’s incredible upper body was obviously the result of vigorous training and playing at rugby.  It was likely that was his main sport in his old school and he’d switched to football because the ruby practice would not have allowed him to work his afterschool job.

Even accounting for someone who was around Lestrade’s height, there were still three strong possibilities, and if Blackwood hadn’t bunged up his arm in a game the week before, there would have been four possibilities.

“All right. There’s only one logical way to go about this,” said Mycroft, lifting his head.  “Tomorrow, St. Xavier’s football team plays Westminster School. You and I will be going to that game. The culprit will be there and you’ll be able to identify him, won't you?”

Sherlock nodded grimly. “I’ll know him again if I see him. But don’t you have tutoring tomorrow?”

“Yes, well …” Mycroft shrugged loosely. “I can miss one day. It won’t be the end of the world.”

Which was _literally_ true, but Mycroft was aware that if he bowed out of his Peer Tutoring duties and was spotted by someone at the game and it got back to the High Master or the Surmaster, he would almost certainly be turfed from the program and possibly even busted down a level in Maths, putting him back in the same track as others in his year. The idea of it made his stomach lurch, but it wasn’t of a consequence. This was much more important than class standing and A-Levels.

“I’ll pick you up after you’re done school, and –”

“– Can John come with us?”

Mycroft raised a brow. _That_ was unexpected.

“John?”

“We were going to go to his house after school tomorrow. Mummy already said it was all right,” said Sherlock. “And he fancies football, but his mum won’t let him play until he’s older, plus he thinks the boys on our football team are idiots, so he won’t watch them.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. Sherlock’s earnest expression was a bit jarring. He considered his earlier musings that he and Sherlock would necessarily grow apart as they grew older, but he wasn’t sure quite how to interpret the expression on his little brother’s face.

He flashed on Sherlock’s earlier observation that he seemed disappointed that Lestrade was the supposed culprit in the destruction of the Jolly Roger. He’d brushed off the knowing little smirk as Sherlock being pleased to have discerned his mood. Now, looking at the slight flush on the boy’s cheeks and the slight wriggling, Mycroft had to wonder.

“Well  …”

Mycroft wasn’t sure that it would be the best idea. With John there, Sherlock would definitely be distracted, and he was going to need his brother’s full attention on the task at hand. Then again, if he refused, Sherlock was liable to pout and possibly not have his head in the game anyway.

Something suddenly occurred to Mycroft and he tilted his head at Sherlock.

“Did you tell John? About the Jolly Roger, I mean. And what happened to it?”

Sherlock looked surprised. “No. He asked me why I had a new bag and I told him something happened to the other one. He didn’t ask any other questions.” He looked put out. “He almost never does.”

“It’s likely that he thought if there were more to the story than that, you would have said so. Why didn’t you tell him?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes. “He … he would have gotten angry, and he might have wanted to ... do something. And the boys who did that are bigger than he is.”

Mycroft dipped his head. Ah, yes. John Watson, small in size, perhaps, but not in bravery. An 11-year-old child going up against more-or-less grown men was in no way, shape or form a fair fight, but boys like John Watson very rarely viewed things in that way. It would either serve him very well or very poorly when he grew up.

“They’re bigger than I am, too. Well, some of them. Were you afraid for me?”

He made his voice light as he was joking, more or less, and  was stunned when Sherlock’s head suddenly snapped up, a cold blue gaze raking over him.

“You talked to him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Him?”

“G. Lestrade.”

“His name is Greg,” said Mycroft softly. “And yes, I did. This afternoon after school.”

“He told you he didn’t do it.” Sherlock was still staring at him. “You didn’t believe him.”

“Not at first, no. In my mind, he had plenty of reasons to not tell the truth.”

Sherlock’s face whitened as continued to gaze at his brother. “He hurt you.”

Mycroft had reckoned that the tie he still wore covered the small mark that had been made when Lestrade had lost control and pushed him up against his car. Then he realized that he’d twisted it so that the knot didn’t rest squarely in the hollow of his throat in a bid to take some pressure off the sore spot. Sherlock’s keen eyes must have spotted that, and perhaps he had noticed the edge of a discoloration that could only have been a bruise.

“Just a little,” said Mycroft in a mild voice. “It could have been worse. I accused him of certain things, and he was very offended.”

“What things?”

Mycroft hesitated. He didn’t think it was quite the time or place to explain drug use to his impressionable little brother. Hopefully it was a subject that Sherlock would naturally avoid as he got older.

“Things that went beyond the scope of the Jolly Roger.” Mycroft smiled ruefully. “It was a mistake. You see? I told you I make them, too.”

Sherlock said nothing for a disquietingly long amount of time. Finally he sighed and shook his head.

“It’s my fault. He hurt you because I was wrong.”

Mycroft sighed softly. He reached out and put his hand under his brother’s chin, lifting it until the brilliant blue eyes were fixed on his.

“ _No_. He hurt me because _I_ was wrong.”

He saw Sherlock swallow hard and give a wan smile. Mycroft smiled back and gave him a pat on the head.

“John can come along if it’s all right with his parents.” Mycroft’s expression turned serious at Sherlock’s sudden smile. “And I think you should tell him what happened. He’s your friend, Sherlock. He’ll want to know. I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to bite off more than he can chew.”

Sherlock beamed and ran off, saying that he was going to ring John immediately and tell him everything. Mycroft heard him clatter off toward their parents’ room and the door creaked slightly shut, but not entirely closed. Sherlock wanted privacy for his call, apparently.

Mycroft was still not sure how to take that. Part of him thought Sherlock much too young to feel any sort of … _anything_ for _anyone_ , but he reflected that he had not been much older when he recognized in what direction his inclinations rested. It was just odd to even think of such emotions present in Sherlock, who seemed so uninterested in people in general, apart from their quirks and the secrets he was able to unearth.

Mycroft wearily rose from Sherlock’s bed and trudged down the hall to his own room. Dropping onto his bed, he put a hand over his face and wondered if he should just go to bed early, but dismissed the idea. Mummy would wonder about that and fuss, insist on knowing what was wrong, and he certainly didn’t want to get into _that._

He thought over his lecture to Sherlock and grimaced. Sentiment. That bloody useless thing. He and Sherlock had stepped into the same trap. Sherlock had been led astray because sentiment had blinded him to the obvious.

The thing of it was, he had been talking more to himself than to his little brother. Sherlock’s normally keen eye and perception had been blunted by the trauma of seeing a valuable asset cut to ribbons in front of him. Mycroft knew his own excuse was similar. His belief that Greg Lestrade had done such a cruel thing had cut his prior opinion of the older boy to ribbons.

All at once, his illusions that Lestrade was a likable fellow and worth of … admiration had been shredded. He’d allowed his bewilderment, and – if he were being honest – wounded pride at having been pushed aside by Lestrade for another boy, er, tutor, to color his judgment. He’d subconsciously wanted to find a reason for Gregory’s shunning of him and the issue of the Jolly Roger had given him a foothold, and he’d run wild with it. It was humiliating to think of how ridiculous he must have looked and sounded, railing at Lestrade that way. Over a misperception and piss-poor deduction.

 _Sentiment_. Mycroft glowered at the ceiling. Well, live and learn. If Sherlock knew never to make that same mistake again, he’d certainly learned _his_ lesson, as well.

A knock on the door startled him, but only for a moment. Sherlock wouldn’t bother to knock on a door that was already ajar, and neither would Mummy.

“Come in, Dad.”

Mycroft sat up as his father entered – as he’d expected – looking a bit confused, which was also as expected. He had a towel on one arm and a pair of miniature pajamas with swarms of bees on the flap at the back.

“Oh, I thought Sherlock was in here,” said Mr. Holmes, looking around the room as if he thought his youngest son might materialize if he only stood there and looked hard enough. “I was just in his room and he’s not there. It’s time for his bath, so I thought he might have taken refuge with you.”

“No, he’s in your and Mummy’s room making a call,” said Mycroft. “And you know he only makes a fuss because you won’t let him bring his pirate ship flotilla into the bath.”

“It’s your mum who put a stop to that. The last time we let him, there was a ‘sudden’ cannonball hit and the floor was soaked.” Mr. Holmes looked dour. “ _One_ boat is fine, not a whole bloody armada. That’s what got Nelson into trouble at Trafalgar, after all.”

Mycroft smiled. His father adored historical jokes and puns. The sillier or more obscure they were, the better.

“I’d better get my hip waders on, just in case.” Mr. Holmes turned to go, but then turned back with a slight frown. “Has your friend gone already, then?”

“Friend?” Mycroft blinked. “What friend?”

“The young man who was downstairs a minute ago.” Mr. Holmes frowned at his son. “Didn’t your mother come get you?”

“Friend?” He sat up a bit straighter. “A friend of _mine_?”

“From your school. Your mother said she was going to call you. I was wrestling with the laundry. There was a fire in the dryer drum again,” said Mr. Holmes. “She’s working much too hard on this new book, your mother is. Did you see what she tried to do with the gravy earlier?”

“Dad, I –” Mycroft’s mind was whirling. It couldn’t be Harry. His father would have recognized him, and besides, Harry would’ve rung before popping round.

“This is someone from _my_ school?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? But yes, I think I’ve seen him before somewhere. Maybe at the last Family Day?”

“He’s gone, you said?”

“I supposed he was because you’re up here, but now I don’t know.” Mr. Holmes shook his head slowly and padded out into the hallway. “Violet? Is Mikey’s friend still here, dear?”

Mycroft cringed. That bloody stupid nickname –!

He couldn’t hear any response, and that made his heartbeat quicken. Jumping up, he went out into the hallway and saw his father leaning over the railing, his head cocked to one side. He shrugged at Mycroft.

“Must’ve gone home. Was it something important?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Mycroft, “considering I don’t know who possibly could have come out this way at all.”

Certainly not a _friend_ , since he had precious few of those, and there was not anything so pressing that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

“Maybe it was someone I tutor?” But even that was doubtful. They all had his mobile number, and if there were any emergencies or changes in plans, they could text him.

“ _That’s_ it!” His father brightened. “I heard him mention tutoring to your mother. Well, I suppose he had to dash and will talk to you at school tomorrow. Now,” he said, looking with comic determination at his bedroom door, “Once more unto the breach for me. I wonder if I should I get my plastic mack out of the hall closet?”

Mycroft heard vague noises behind him, one of them sounding like Sherlock whinging about “getting to the good part” of a story he’d been telling John. As he descended the stairs, he could hear his father speaking in an unusually firm voice. Seconds later, the sounds of running water and Sherlock’s grumbling followed.

What could _not_ be heard, when Mycroft reached the bottom of the stairs, was his own breathing, but that was likely because the minute he’d cleared the landing, he’d stopped doing much of it.

The figure sitting on the couch, dark head bent over a book that Mycroft recognized as one of his mother’s earliest, looked up at his approach. The two stared at each other, Mycroft in stunned disbelief and the other looking faintly amused.

Mycroft exhaled. Slowly.

 “ _You_.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Hi.”

Greg Lestrade stretched his arms over his head. “I heard your dad calling your mum, but I didn’t want to answer and, uh, confuse things.”

Mycroft thought that if he opened his mouth again, he might start hyperventilating. His mind was utterly blank, which should have terrified him, but he was too addled by how entirely unbothered and comfortable Lestrade looked sitting in his living room.

He’d changed out of his work clothes and was in a T-shirt that made his shoulders look about a mile wide, grey joggers and trainers. His team jacket was curled up on a nearby ottoman. He looked like one of those uni lads who, for whatever reason, found it a fantastic idea to go for a run when it was pitch black and after a pint or two, though Mycroft was reasonably certain Greg hadn’t been drinking. He couldn’t imagine why Greg would come to _his_ house of all places, if he hadn’t tipped back a few, but there it was.

“This is really good.” Greg held up the book. “I’ve never really been keen on fractals, but you mum has a way of making them interesting. Wish she were teaching Maths this term. I thought old Forrester was going to nod off the other day in the middle of that section on limits.”

Mycroft found his voice then, because it suddenly occurred to him that it was very quiet on the lower level. _Too_ quiet.

“Where _is_ my mother?”

“Popped into the kitchen, I think,” said Lestrade. “She was going to make a phone call a minute ago but said someone was using it – the phone, that is. I reckoned it wasn’t you since you have a mobile and all.”

“So do you. You could’ve just rung me.” Mycroft’s jaw was tight. “Or are you in the habit of just popping up wherever –”

The clicking of heels behind him cut into Mycroft’s words, and he felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of his neck.

“– Oh, there you are, Mikey! I was just going to come and get you. I just opened a new box of Jaffa Cakes!”

Violet Holmes, all smiles and sparkling blue eyes, entered the room carrying a tray laden with the snacks and things for tea. Mycroft watched in mild horror as she set the tray in front of Lestrade and filled a cup, speaking to him in soft, encouraging tones.

“Help yourself, dear. Have you tried the new currant flavor? Mikey adores it. We can barely keep them in the house!” She gave her son a warm smile. “Make sure you add them to the list for Mrs. Turner, dear. She’s doing a shop tomorrow. Sugar and milk, Greg?”

“Just a bit, thank you, Mrs. Holmes. This is all ace.”

Greg took a bite of a Jaffa Cake, making pleased sounds low in his throat that brought the blood to Mycroft’s face. Lestrade glanced over at him with a slight smirk, his gaze sweeping his body in a not-quite-casual manner as if he had cottoned on to what Mycroft was thinking.

“These _are_ brilliant. I’ll have to tell my mum. My dad fancies Jaffa Cakes, too.”

“Mummy.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, but threaded with tension. “What _is_ all of this?”

“It’s _tea_ , dear. I would have thought that the salver and the dishes and the tea strainers would have been a broad hint.”

His mother gazed at him in mild concern. “Are you feeling all right, Mikey? You were so quiet at dinner, and you nearly walked into that wall –”

“– What I _meant_ ,” said Mycroft, massaging the bridge of his nose, “is why you’re bothering with all of this. Lestrade _isn’t_ staying and _isn’t_ welcome here.”

Greg stopped chewing and looked a bit chagrined, putting down his cup with an awkward clatter. Mycroft gave him a vicious glare, but that was nothing compared to the fury that sparked from his mother’s eyes as she marched over to him, still holding the milk jug.

“Mycroft Holmes! How could you be so rude to your friend! –”

“– He’s _not_ my –”

“– After he’s come all this way to bring you something you left behind at school! You’ve been in a strop all this week, and I’ve had just about enough! If you don’t want to tell me or your father what’s wrong, then that’s your decision, but there’s no cause for you to behave as if you’ve no manners. Now, you apologize to Greg this instant!”

Mycroft felt the blood pounding in his head, and not even Lestrade’s self-conscious squirming gave him any comfort. It was bad enough to have to endure the sight of Greg _in_ his home, eating _his_ Jaffa Cakes and be reminded of his massive deductive failure of earlier in the day, but to crown it, now Mummy was upset, as well.

He knew it would have been different if Lestrade actually had anything to do with the Jolly Roger’s destruction – his mother was even harsher on those who antagonized Sherlock than he was and likely would have gleefully assisted him in his plan of vengeance, but, of course that wasn’t the case. 

And Mycroft knew what his mother didn’t – that Lestrade would likely read his apology as one for his appalling behavior earlier in the afternoon not for his snippiness of just a few moments ago. Mycroft was quite aware that an apology _was_ necessary, but he’d hoped to have the evening to rehearse what he was actually going to say.

He felt his mother’s sharp elbow in his ribs and Mycroft grumbled beneath his breath, bowing to the inevitable.

“I'm sorry. Enjoy the Jaffa Cakes. Have the whole box, in fact.” Mycroft bared his teeth in what he reckoned would pass for a smile if he had been the murderer in a horror film. “I’ve gone off them suddenly.” 

_“Mycroft!”_

“Er, it’s all right.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “I really can’t stay long anyway.”

Greg stood, discreetly pulling the hem of his shirt. Mycroft stoically willed himself not to notice the enticing way his shoulders flexed with the motion.

Well, all right, so he _had_ noticed it, but he felt a bit proud that he’d managed to not blush again.

“I just wanted to drop off that, uh, thing you left behind at school,” said Greg, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I’ll be on my way, yeah?”

Mycroft felt his mother’s withering glare raking the side of his face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the other boy. Lestrade gone from self-assured and comfortable to incredibly nervous. It was jarring in a way. Lestrade knew he was not in the wrong, and yet he was acting as guilty and miserable as a politician caught exiting a knocking shop. The fact that his mother had only _just_ lost her temper told Mycroft a few things, and they were just as baffling.

“Mummy, I’d like to speak with Lestrade alone,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’ll bring the tea things in and wash up afterward.”

“Hmph.” A wealth of disapproval was packed into that one syllable, but her expression lightened when she turned back to Lestrade.

“It was a _pleasure_ meeting you, Greg. Thank you again for corralling Redbeard. He slips his lead at times and it scares us to death. That truck just missed him!”

“ _What_?” Mycroft’s head whipped around and he just managed to keep his mouth from falling open. “Redbeard got loose again? You didn’t tell me that! What hap –”

“– I didn’t get a _chance_ to tell you _anything_ , Mycroft. But yes, Redbeard went haring off after a squirrel and nearly went out into the street just ahead of a packing truck. Greg was just coming up and caught him before he could run out into the street. It was a near thing. _Too_ near.” Violet Holmes gave a lofty toss of her head. “Of course, _you’re_ so clever, I’m shocked you didn’t already know.”

Mycroft looked at Lestrade and saw the sweat patches on his T-shirt, the red marks on his hands where a dog lead had bit into them, the orangey-fur that stood out against the heather coloring of the joggers –

 _I can’t be losing my touch, could I?_ _I’m too young to have peaked!_

Mycroft massaged the stretch of skin between his eyes again, mumbling a thank you as he did so. He’d told his parents that Redbeard needed an intensive course of training to keep him from straining at his lead and giving them the slip each time an interesting small creature crossed his line of vision. His mother and father had agreed in principle, but they were loath to separate Sherlock from his beloved dog for too long. Mycroft hadn’t pressed the issue, but had thought their attitude to be a bit short sighted. A brief period of separation would be better than the alternative.

He shuddered at the image of the alternative that had nearly happened that night.

“I’m glad I could help. He’s a brilliant dog,” said Greg, smiling. “Just a little spirited.”

“That’s certainly one word for it!” Mrs. Holmes laughed softly. “Thank you again, Greg, and good night.”

Violet Holmes moved off, but not before hissing in her son’s general direction: “Behave, Mikey! _Be. have._ ”

Mycroft nodded numbly, waiting for the footfalls to fade and the door of his mother’s study to click shut before allowing himself to breathe deeper.

Once the silence had settled in again, he fixed Greg with a steady, unblinking stare.

“How close was it, really?”

Greg’s expression was solemn. “The bloke in the truck was moving pretty fast. I just managed to … you know. I was afraid I’d hurt him – your dog, I mean – I yanked on his collar pretty hard to keep him from bolting into the road. I was scared I might’ve choked him or given him whiplash. He seems all right enough, though. He went to your mum’s office when we came in and she said she’d take him to the vet tomorrow morning just to make sure everything’s okay.”

“He’s a lot hardier than he looks,” said Mycroft. “A slightly bruised neck, if he even has one, is a much better outcome than what would have resulted from his going up against tons of speeding metal.”

“Can’t argue there.”

“My mother must still be shaken up by what happened,” said Mycroft, lifting an eyebrow. “Otherwise she would’ve seen right through you.”

Greg’s expression shifted into one of wariness. “What are you on about _now_?”

“You didn’t tell her,” said Mycroft. “Why?”

“Tell her about _what_?”

“About our earlier … conversation,” said Mycroft. “It follows that you’d see little use in telling others about what happened. If your goonish football friends tried to hurt me, they’d get dunned by the Surmaster and likely turfed from the team. No one else would care. The only revenge that you’d possibly be able to take would be to humiliate me by informing my parents about the accusations I made concerning you and your family.”

“Wrong.” Greg shook his head. “I didn’t come round to get you into trouble or anything. I just wanted a quick chat, that’s all. Your mum insisted I stay and have tea, by the way. I’d been hoping I’d catch you outside, or something.”

“Outside?” Mycroft stared at him. “What do you think _I_ would be doing  _outside_?”

“Dunno. Walking the dog, maybe?” Greg shrugged loosely. “Or kicking the football around. _Something_.”

“My parents and I alternate nights when we take out Redbeard,” said Mycroft stiffly. “And as for me going anywhere _near_ a football –”

“Ah, give over. I’ve seen you in P.E. class. You know your way around a football. Figured you had to have gotten your practice in somewhere,” said Lestrade. “You’d make a good keeper. But, uh, I suppose I understand why you wouldn’t fancy being on the team.”

“Yes, I suppose you would. Hm. A ‘quick chat,’ is it?” Mycroft crossed his arms. “Well, let's hear it then. I suppose you’re within your rights to be angry.”

“Mistakes happen.” Lestrade shrugged. “Not the end of the world.”

“Yes. _Mistakes_ do happen. However, I accused you and your father of taking part in a very illegal activity.” Mycroft felt the blood rushing to his head again. “It could be said _that_ stretches the definition of ‘mistake.’’”

“Yeah, maybe.” A slight smile tugged at Lestrade’s lips. “It was actually kind of funny until I realized you were serious.”

“Yes, well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I still don’t understand why you’ve come here. Did you think I wouldn’t apologize? Figured you’d best meet me on my turf and shame me into it?”

“For the bloke who’s supposed to be the smartest in his year, if not the whole bloody school, you can be a bit of a daft prat.” Greg was smirking again. “I told you why I was here. Well, I guess to be technical, your mum told you why I was here.”

“Lestrade, you can drop the posturing,” said Mycroft. “I’m not accustomed to making many mistakes. Neither is my mother, who, again was so shaken by what apparently nearly happened to Redbeard –”

“– Cute name, by the way.”

“Yes, well, I’ll tell Sherlock that you approve.” Mycroft’s voice was dry. “At any rate, you know and I know that I left nothing behind at school” – _except, perhaps, my dignity “_ and if there _isn’t_ anything else, I have homework to finish –”

Lestrade rocked slightly on his heels. “Look, I’m not lying, but you’re wrong again. You _did_ leave something at school … then again, I could reckon you didn’t realize it.”

He reached for his back trouser pocket, and for a tense moment, Mycroft wondered if he were going to pull out a weapon of some kind since his pocketknife didn’t appear to be in the front pocket as usual.

Mycroft fancied that Greg Lestrade would not be so foolish as to try to harm him in his own home – that would be a poor show, especially after having saved Redbeard’s life. But such things had been known to happen: On soap operas and insipid sitcoms on telly, true, but still.

What Lestrade _did_ take out, however, wasn’t particularly lethal, but it caused Mycroft’s eyes to nearly jump out of his head as much as if it had been a knife or gun or something of the sort.

It was an envelope. Nothing special about it, really, except that it was office-issue and from an office that was almost always damp, sealed, on the smaller side. There was no writing on it, and it had a dark crease down the middle where Lestrade had folded it in order to put it in his back pocket.

“ _This_ is what you left behind.” Greg moved closer, holding out the envelope. “I suppose you have a point, come to that. It’s not really forgetting if you didn’t know about it in the first place, yeah?”

Mycroft stared at the envelope as it hung between him and Lestrade like an unexploded bomb. He slowly raised his eyes to Greg’s face.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“Well, because –” Greg broke off with a small frown. “Wait a minute. You know what’s in here, don’t you?”

“… Yes.” Mycroft darted a quick glance at Greg’s hand. “And so I ask again, why are _you_ giving me this?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Never mind that; how’d you know? Lucky guess?”

Mycroft hesitated a moment. “I don’t make a habit of making guesses – but I do sometimes, yes.”

“Right, but you’re not guessing now, are you?” Greg looked bemused. “How’d you know? Really?”

Mycroft paused again, weighing his options, before deciding to just get on with it.

“The envelope is of a specific size, and there is no space on either end, meaning whatever is in it is almost exactly the same dimensions. You took the trouble to find a clean envelope, likely from your workplace when you could’ve just kept it all in your wallet and saved the trouble. You were concerned with presentation – oddly – but you absent-mindedly put it in your back pocket with your wallet, and it has gotten creased and grimy.”

Lestrade noted the smudge down the middle and scowled, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “bugger.”

“That you could bend it at all indicates there’s nothing very rigid in there, the envelope is filled, but doesn’t bulge anywhere, so it couldn’t be a single sheet of paper, nor could it be several sheets, or else an envelope that size would buckle.” Mycroft folded his arms. “So I could only conclude that the envelope contains banknotes – mainly tenners and fivers – totaling less than 100 pounds but more than 50.”

Greg whistled low, shaking his head in amazement.

“Bloody hell. Are you _ever_ surprised then? By anything?”

“Your turning up in my living room would qualify, but in general, not really,” said Mycroft. “I asked you a question, Lestrade. I know you’re not the person I’m looking for, so why are you doing this?”

Greg studied Mycroft quietly for a moment.

“Y’know, I was sort of hoping for a ‘Thanks, Greg, I appreciate all this,’ or maybe even at least an explanation for earlier –”

“I was _going_ to do that,” snapped Mycroft, his eyes blazing. “You didn’t need to come all this way to –”

And then it was Mycroft’s turn to look staggered when he saw Greg give him a funny stare, start to say something, but then decide against it. Mycroft blinked in shock and took a few steps backward.

“You _know_.” Mycroft’s voice was slightly hoarse. “You _know_ what happened. You know who it was.”

“Yeah.” Greg shook the envelope at him. “Will you take the bloody thing already? My arm’s starting to ache.”

“Who was it?” Mycroft ignored the outstretched arm and the little tremble in it that he suspected Greg was doing just to be theatrical. “Sod the money. I want to know _who_ it was.”

“All right, all right. If I tell you, then will you …” Greg shook his head. “Nevermind. It was Gruner, all right? Or did you reckon that out already and you’re just testing me?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. Gruner?

“ _Gruner_?”

“You really didn’t know?” Greg peered at him. “Yeah, it was Gruner. I got it all out of him, and a bit more besides.” He shook the envelope in Mycroft’s direction again. “Open it, and I’ll tell you all about it, if you want.”

In a sort of a muddled daze, Mycroft took the envelope, feeling the banknotes inside flex beneath his fingers.

“Gruner,” Mycroft said softly. “Ripping up a child’s backpack? It all seems a bit low-rent for him.”

“I think all the aristocratic shite is a put-on,” said Greg. “He’s a nasty prick. I know he’s a brilliant middie, but I can’t stand him. He’s the sort to grin in your face while he sticks a knife in your back, and then start blubbering when you’re bleeding all over his tie.”

It was, Mycroft had to say, a pretty apt description of Gruner, especially for a person like Lestrade who had not known him very long.

Adelbert Gruner was, so far as it went, a fairly standard sort of boy despite his tragic childhood. Born outside Salzburg, his parents had died in a ski lift accident in St. Morritz when he was 7. From what Mycroft had managed to piece together, Gruner had then been passed from relative to relative until he was shunted off to some well-off paternal relations in Vienna, who’d sent him to England to be educated.

He’d been boarding at St. Xavier’s since Fifth Form, and Mycroft had been repulsed by the boy almost on sight. Gruner was an unctuous, obsequious sort who was not quite adept in disguising his contempt for anyone he considered beneath him – and in Gruner’s opinion, that was pretty much everyone saving Her Majesty. Mycroft had always thought that but for Gruner’s dark hair, he could have been the real-life version of the Uriah Heep character from _David Copperfield_.

Yet unlike, Heep, Gruner had a way with the ladies. He was always seen in the company of good-looking, generally intelligent girls. How he managed to charm them, Mycroft couldn’t even begin to guess. Gruner wasn’t much to look at, and that lilting “posh Continental” accent he liked to affect was pretty rubbish, as was the broken French he’d throw out every now and again. Gruner insisted that only the “low sort” spoke German on a daily basis in Austria, and most of the so-called upper crust conversed in French or English – an assertion that was extremely offensive to Mycroft, who adored the German language. Gruner’s comments were laughable, too, considering Austria’s proud reputation as a mostly Germanophone country.

Mycroft could only assume that Gruner was able to fool some of the more gullible young ladies into thinking that he really was descended from “German and British royalty,” but he chose not to exercise his prerogative in using a title because he didn’t want people “to make a fuss.”

That was a pretty amusing contrast to the high-handed attitude Gruner exhibited to pretty much everyone at school, especially the Governor’s Men who were at the school on scholarship, whom he disdained as “sponging pissbabies.”

Mycroft remembered one poor bloke who had committed the cardinal sin of picking up Gruner’s Chemistry text by accident and going home with it. He’d brought it back the next morning safe and sound with apologies, but that apparently hadn’t been good enough, for “Baron” Adelbert Gruner. The unfortunate boy later discovered his school blazer destroyed beyond repair, necessitating the boy’s parents to scrape up the money for a new one.

There hadn’t been any proof Gruner had done it, but –

Mycroft’s breath left him in a rush as he recalled that unfortunate incident. The coat had been slashed to ribbons … and Gruner was attached to a rather intricate Swiss pocketknife. He said was an heirloom that had belonged to one of his “ancestors” who’d supposedly distinguished himself in the Austro-Prussian War by using it to disembowel several members of the Prussian Army. Gruner had apparently assumed no one would know that such knives hadn’t been manufactured until 1983.

“Mycroft?” Greg was eyeing him in concern. “You all right?”

“I …” Mycroft shook his head. “Yes. Fine. How did you find out it was him?”

“Easy, really. Dimmock told me.”

“Dimmock?” Mycroft looked startled. “How did _he_ know? He wasn’t there.”

“How did you know he –” Greg looked over at him sharply. “Right. Stupid question, I reckon. No, he wasn’t there, and he didn’t _tell_ me, exactly. It was earlier, you know, when he and Jones and that whole lot saw us in the car park. Umm, all that you were banging on with about Jones. Uhhh, were you saying what I _think_ you were saying? About the, uh, Paddington Bear and all?”

Mycroft sighed softly. “Do you _really_ want to know the answer to that? The images in your mind will be … irrevocable. I'd not like to be responsible for that.”

A slow shiver rolled through Lestrade’s body. “Too late. I think I know too much already.”

“Apologies.”

“Uh, anyway. Dimmock’s a nosy little knobhead sometimes,” said Lestrade. “He didn’t really buy that we were just talking about a maths assignment and kept pestering me to tell him what it was ‘really’ about. I tried fobbing him off, but he said it looked like we were about to throw fists right there in the car park. I told him that I didn’t think you were that sort of bloke.”

Lestrade raked a hand over his hair. “Not that I was trying to say you were a coward or anything or that you can’t hold your own. I told Dim that you seemed like the type who wouldn’t go straight to a punch-up to settle something, but for all I knew, you might have a black belt in a billion different things and have me flat on my back before I could blink.”

At those words, a few interesting scenarios presented themselves in Mycroft’s mind, but he thought it best not to dwell on them.

“Dim said he didn’t know about that,” continued Greg, “but that I was right that there was more to you than it seemed. He said he saw it himself sometime last year when you damn near twisted the foot off some rugby bloke two years ahead of you without breaking a sweat. I asked what he’d done to you to get you so riled and Dim said from what he knew, he hadn’t done anything to _you_ – he’d done something to your little brother. He said he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.”

Mycroft stared, and then grinned. “I’d forgotten about Dimmock being in the crowd during all of that. He’s so easy to miss at times.”

“Oi! That’s not right. Dim’s probably just a late bloomer, is all.” Greg was trying very hard to look stern, which had the net result of making him appear more adorable than was convenient at the moment. “He'll come into his own in uni ... maybe."

“I only meant that he is usually very _quiet_. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s raised _his_ in class.” Mycroft’s eyebrow jumped up. “What were _you_ thinking of?”

“… Oh.”

Greg looked sheepish and the tips of his ears turned red. “Well that, too, I suppose. Um … where was I? Oh, right. Dimmock putting his bit in. Well, when Dimmock told me that, I started thinking about what you’d said to me, y’know, about being a bully and all and not sticking to someone my own size. That’s when I reckoned out that somehow you thought _I’d_ done something to your brother.

“That stumped me for a good bit until I remembered you saying something about me and ‘those other football pricks.’” Greg lowered his voice on the last word as if he feared someone overhearing. “So I figured it had something to do with the team somehow. I went back to the athletic complex – most of ‘em were still there, jawing – and I asked a few questions and was able to suss out what went on yesterday. I cornered Gruner, and that was it.”

“I see. That was some fairly good detective work,” said Mycroft in a grudgingly conciliatory tone. “Kudos, Lestrade.”

But if Greg sensed any resentment in Mycroft’s voice, he didn’t show it, as his face glowed with pride.

“Well, it runs in the family, I suppose. My mum’s dad was in the CID for ages, and someone on my dad’s side was one of the first crop of women police sergeants down at the Met. It was a long time ago. I wish I knew her name. Dad always said he’d go through some of _his_ granddad’s old papers and find out for me, but …” He trailed off with a weak shrug.

“Any road, Gruner didn't deny it when I asked him. Garrideb and Moran had been with him, but they said they didn’t do anything really. It seemed like they barely even remembered it. I don’t think they like old Bert very much.”

Mycroft snickered. Gruner despised any shortening of his name, but of all the possibilities, “Bert” was the one that could send him into a rage. And he thought of Sherlock’s declaration that the destroyer of the Jolly Roger was someone those around him didn’t “like very much” and he couldn’t fight the smile.

“I’m sure _that_ didn’t sit well with _Bert_.”

“No, it didn’t. I thought he was going to chin them,” said Greg. “He was ticked that they turned on him. He was standing about and grinning as if it were something special to have harassed some sprog who hadn’t done anything to him.” His voice was replete with disgust. “But I got them to pony up.”

Mycroft looked down at the envelope in his hand for a moment before turning it over in his palm. It was sealed, and he could tell that Greg had licked it –

_Focus. You’ve bolloxed this up enough. No time for daydreaming._

He caught his lip between his bottom teeth as he tore through the sealed flap. Mycroft rifled quickly through the notes. His nose wrinkled and he gave Greg a quick look before counting through them again. He looked from the money to Greg in confusion.

“This envelope contains 85 pounds.”

“Yep.”

“It’s clear you counted this over several times before you put the money inside. You must have known the amount.”

“Yep.”

“Then you might also remember that this is 10 pounds more than what I requested.”

“Yep.”

Mycroft let his breath out through clenched teeth. Lovely. Lestrade had picked a _great_ time to become taciturn.

“I don’t understand.” Mycroft put the bills back in the envelope. “I don’t understand several things, actually.”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft glowered. Now he was certain Greg was doing it on purpose.

“You are a new boy,” Mycroft said. “Gruner is an arsehead, a liar, an imbecile and god knows what else, but he has also attended St. Xavier for years. He is a boarder, and he is from a family that ostensibly has a great deal of money. That holds some cachet. Even if the others on the team don’t like him, he is, in large part, one of their own in a way _you_ will never be. The likes of Moran, Garrideb and their other degenerate friends would not let a new boy embarrass and harass someone like Gruner – or shake him down for money for what they probably consider a trifling incident.”

He looked expectantly at Greg, and Greg simply looked back at him. A somewhat uncomfortable silence spun out, and Mycroft felt himself almost fidgeting under Greg’s intent stare.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just the way you talk …” Greg canted his head and gave him a long look. “It’s _real_. I mean, it’s not a put-on, like Gruner and some of the other toffs at school like to do sometimes. The words you use and all – it’s just you. It’s how you are.”

“Yes, well, it’s not exactly something I can help,” said Mycroft, averting his eyes. “As you say, it’s how I am and how I’ve been for as long as I can remember.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s nice,” said Greg quietly. “That’s what I was getting at. I’m not as good with words as you are.”

“… Oh.”

Mycroft felt his cheeks burn. “Well, erm, it comes with the territory. Words, that is. And using them. Especially when making a study of them – of languages, I mean. Which I do. Often.”

He cleared his throat and grimaced, wishing that his apparent facility with languages could somehow have prevented his blabbering on like an idiot.

“I still don’t understand how you were able to get Gruner to part with 85 pounds.”

“Well, he only coughed up the 75 you asked for at first,” said Lestrade. “Moran and Garrideb came through with the other 10 quid.”

“It makes even _less_ sense to me that they’d pay anything at all.” Mycroft shook his head slowly. “How did you manage it?”

“Well, I took a page from your book. From earlier today. You inspired me, actually.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yep. I remembered what you said about being ‘reasonable.’ So I decided to try that out on that lot,” said Greg. “But I knew that if all I did was tell them that I didn’t hold with chivvying little kids because it’s a bad look for the team, I wouldn’t get anywhere.”

“Very true.”

“Right.” Greg nodded. “So I hit on something that was a bit more to the point. See, I have this gammy knee. Old injury from when I played at my old school. Tore my meniscus a couple of years back. Healed up fine, but I get twinges here and there.

Now, Gorsam’s been paranoid about injuries. The Surmaster’s been on his arse about not trotting blokes out who’re playing hurt, so the slightest thing, if Gorsam finds out about it, you sit. So I may’ve mentioned that my knee was acting up a bit and that if they didn’t come up with the money, I might tell Gorsam I didn’t know if I’d be fit to play in the game against Westminster tomorrow.”

Mycroft scanned Greg from top to toe. His eyes wanted to take the scenic route up and down Lestrade’s athletic body, but he forced himself to be quick, methodical and scientific about it.

“Even if your knee _were_ bothering you – and it isn’t, and hasn’t for quite a while – you would still play. You’d play even if both knees were busted or if you had to hop about on one leg. You’re too much of a competitor to take yourself out of a match that way.”

“Well, _you_ know that. And _I_ know that. Maybe even _they_ know that.” Greg’s eyes glinted in satisfaction. “But they couldn’t be 100 percent _sure_ , yeah?”

Mycroft laughed beneath his breath. Greg Lestrade was a clever, imaginative, devious and rather dangerous man. Anyone who fancied him a dullard from the sticks or a dumb athlete would be making a very bad, and possibly costly, mistake, as apparently Gruner and his cohorts had learned – the hard way.

“Gruner was stubborn at first, but Moran and Garrideb gave him some convincing of their own,” said Greg, with a somewhat sly smile. “He only had 75 quid on him, so the other two kicked in five quid each. And here we are.”

“Here we are,” echoed Mycroft. “I’m curious – didn’t any of them wonder why _you_ cared so much about one small boy’s rucksack? It isn’t as if you’re related to us or … are a close friend.” He cleared his throat again. “Or anything of that sort.”

Mycroft watched an odd blush darken Lestrade’s cheeks, and the dark eyes were suddenly guarded.

“Uh, no.” He still wasn’t quite looking at Mycroft. “That is, not really. They didn’t really say anything, is what I mean. Gruner whinged that it was just a little book bag, but I reckoned that maybe a few quid extra for your brother having to deal with it at all was in order. You didn’t seem like you were pulling that number out of your arse, after all.”

“I wasn’t. It was a custom-made piece, and the materials are quite rare. Seventy-five pounds for the repair is a conservative estimate, so the extra is appreciated.”

Mycroft then explained the history of the Jolly Roger to Greg, including Sherlock’s initial hobby, Mrs. Hudson and her special skills, and the way in which they’d kept from giving the whole game away to their mother. Greg snickered as the story neared its end.

“A dog named Redbeard and a backpack made of old pirate flags. I grew up by the sea and can appreciate a boat and all, but I like land a bit too much for all that.” Greg shook his head. “Your brother’s something else.”

“He is, at that.”

“I still don’t know why he pinned it on me, though,” said Lestrade. “I did come round to give you the money, but I also hoped you’d tell me what _that_ was all about today. I don’t think you would’ve just decided I was the one in the wrong, so that means your brother told you that I’d done it. You were so _sure_.”

“Yes. I was,” muttered Mycroft. “It was your jacket. Your football team jacket. Sherlock saw it during the time that Moran, Gruner and Garrideb were having their fun.”

“What do you mean he _saw_ it?”

“Gruner had it. He was wearing it.” Mycroft looked at Greg. “Why was Gruner wearing _your_ jacket? He has one of his own. But he had _yours_ on. Sherlock didn’t know who he was, of  course, and he didn’t know who _you_ were – by sight, anyway, and –”

“ _Wearing_ it? Jesus!” Greg’s eyes darkened. “That’s why it’s got that bloody _smell_ in it!”

“Smell?”

“Yeah, it’s like hair gel and some sort of cologne mixed with nail lacquer that’s gone off.” He shook his head. “What the hell was he wearing it for? You’re right – he does have his own.”

“Did you know he even had it in the first place?”

“Well, yeah,” said Lestrade. “Yesterday, there was an emergency with my dad. Usually in the afternoon a nurse comes round to make sure he eats – he, ah, has a feeding tube, still – to change his bandages, and all that. When she gets there, my mum can go to work. The nurse stays until I get home from work or practice. But yesterday, my mum texted that the nurse was held up on another job, and wouldn’t be there for an hour. Mum couldn’t afford to be that late for work. I had to call out from my job and rush home from practice so that I could be there in time for my mum to leave for work on time. I left my jacket behind on the pitch. Gruner rang me later and said he had it and he’d bring it round my house.

“I didn’t fancy him doing that, for … y’know … _reasons …_ but he insisted.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I figured it’d be all right as long as it was a quick drop-off. He came round after my mum got home and was helping dad get ready for bed. He didn’t say anything about your brother, obviously, but I know he wasn’t wearing my jacket. He wasn’t wearing _any_ jacket, actually. Had on some ratty jumper and kept trying to pull it up to hide hickeys he had on his neck. I took the piss a bit about that and he said he’d taken a detour at some girls’ school on the other side of town that he’d been meaning to give a look over.”

Greg gave a halfhearted chuckle. “From the look of it, he had some luck there, too. I suppose he’s stopped seeing that blonde from Francis Holland that’s been at a few of the games. I thought Gruner was really into her. He always clattered on about her dad being an Earl and that he was going with her family on a ski holiday in the Alps next half-term.”

“Where _won’t_ be able to get by on the Fourth-form French he thinks impresses people.” Mycroft sneered. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer –”

He halted so abruptly he fancied he could see his words skidding in midair.

“Wait a minute. You said he had hickeys? On his neck?”

“Yep. Must’ve been a nice little fumble.” Greg was leering. “Saw some lipstick marks, too, but I figured I’d leave Gruner the fun of finding that out for himself.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped wide. “Sherlock!”

“Uh, sorry?” Greg blinked. “ _Sherlock_? Isn’t that your brother? What’s he to do with –”

“He was right!” Mycroft nearly vibrated with excitement. “Well, in part. He had the wrong motive, but came to the right conclusion!”

“I’m … not following. Right conclusion about what?”

“The jacket!” Mycroft took a breath. “ _Your_ jacket. Sherlock thought that Gruner had possibly stolen it –”

“Well, that’s not right,” said Greg slowly. “I really did leave it behind. He didn’t nick it from my locker or anything.”

“Yes, and I told Sherlock it was unlikely that he would do such a thing. That sort of crime wouldn’t go undetected for long. Still, it made no sense that a member of the football team would wear another member’s jacket when they have a perfectly good one of their own. Yet, Gruner _was_ wearing your jacket. Sherlock then surmised that Gruner did so in order to impersonate you and perhaps get you into trouble for some wrongdoing that _he_ actually committed – such as the destruction of the Jolly Roger.

"That made no sense to me, because he was wearing your jacket while with people – Moran and Garrideb – who obviously would know that he was not you. Moreover, no one at school would mistake you for each other. But I was thinking only in terms of what was done to Sherlock’s Jolly Roger and that this act took place on the campus of St. Xavier. It would make no sense, then, for Gruner to try to pass himself off as you _there._ And he wasn’t. But Gruner _was_ attempting to impersonate you elsewhere.”

“What?”

Mycroft gestured toward Greg’s jacket. “At the school where he had his … luck.” _And probably something else that rhymes with that._

“All right, you’d better explain it to me,” said Lestrade wearily. “I’m lost.”

“Gruner is a social climber. It oozes from his pores. He’s not nearly as blue-blooded as he claims to be,” said Mycroft. “He wouldn’t let go of the daughter of an Earl so easily, unless she’d thrown him over first, and if we’re thinking of the same blonde, she’s enthralled with him for some reason. He probably tells her about all his ‘German and British’ royal forebears.”

He and Greg shared a grin.

“Our housekeeper does up the homes for some families who have daughters at Frances Holland,” continued Mycroft. “The Sixth-Formers have been in Venice for the past week on an art tour. No doubt _Bert_ has gotten lonely and decided to go in for some temporary company elsewhere. He would think it beneath him to give his actual name to a one-off, and knowing how much intermingling there is with Independent schools in this town, especially the girls’ schools, he wouldn’t want to take the chance that his chosen one would run into his girlfriend some time.

“Your jacket gave him the perfect cover. He could be _you_ for an evening. It was the perfect choice: You’re a new boy, so you wouldn’t be likely to be known by anyone outside of St. Xavier. It was a school at the opposite end of town from your house. Whatever girl he managed to get off with would likely ever realize that she _hadn’t_ been with someone named ‘Lestrade.’ He probably took her number but didn't give her his. After he was finished, you'd get your jacket back. No one would ever be the wiser.”

Mycroft’s smile stretched his face. _Except for a 9-year-old boy. Dear god, he is going to be good. No, more than good - he is going to be extraordinary!_

“Wait, so you’re telling me that Gruner used my jacket to pass himself off as _me_ because he was on the pull?”

“Exactly.”

“He went through all that just to get some girl he doesn’t even want to date to suck on his neck for a little while?" Greg's expression was doubtful. "He couldn’t just stow his jacket and give some fake name?”

“It was little trouble.” Mycroft shrugged. “After all, he already had your jacket and an excuse for its being in his possession. Also, having your jacket gave him that bit of verisimilitude he would need to ensnare his target. Of course the girl would think he was wearing his own jacket, yes? He’s probably been trying to find the perfect opportunity to step out on his girlfriend, and this gave him that chance."

Mycroft took a long glance at the crumpled jacket. "Also, I have to say that judging by the scent you say you picked up on the jacket when Gruner returned it, and some stains I see at the cuffs and continuing up the underside of the sleeves, I would say that it’s likely that his _neck_ wasn’t the only thing that was … sucked that night.”

Greg opened his mouth, but then closed it with a snap, his eyes like dinner plates. Mycroft thought he saw Greg’s knees tremble as he turned and looked at his jacket, lying innocently there on the ottoman.

“ _Oh bloody hell!_ ”

“Come on, Lestrade,” said Mycroft in a gentle voice, nodding toward the couch. “Sit down and finish your tea. Have another Jaffa Cake. You’ll feel better.”


	6. Sorry but can't continue

I'm very sorry but I am having some personal issues I must sort out and do not know when or if I will return to writing. I appreciate everyone's comments and kudos and wish you all the best. -MD


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